


Les Amis des Poètes Morts

by crediniaeth



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989), Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crossover, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:30:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 29
Words: 32,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crediniaeth/pseuds/crediniaeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer still hung in the air as Grantaire exits his parent’s sedan to look toward a stone building that looks impossibly old. This building, the largest on the Musain Academy campus, had dozens of other groups in front of it that resembles the scene he was in – parents, young boys in blazers matching his own, piles of luggage strewn like leather monuments on the bright green grass.</p><p>(Les Mis/Dead Poets Society fusion)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - The Green Fields of Musain

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt taken from this photoset on Tumblr: http://grantairethedrunk.tumblr.com/post/44108297169/an-au-where-grantaire-is-a-student-at-an-all
> 
> \--
> 
> This photoset came across my dash and I HAD TO ANSWER THE CALL. DPS is my all-time favorite movie, Les Mis is one of my favorite musicals.
> 
> It was meant to be. ;)

Grantaire was lost.

A new town, a new house, a new school, a new school year.

Hell, the city is even named _New Rochelle_.

_Everything_ was new.

Summer still hung in the air as Grantaire exits his parent’s sedan to look toward a stone building that looks impossibly old. This building, the largest on the Musain Academy campus, had dozens of other groups in front of it that resembles the scene he was in – parents, young boys in blazers matching his own, piles of luggage strewn like leather monuments on the bright green grass.

The sudden clang of the car’s trunk throws Grantaire out of his revelry.  He looks over to see his father handing him one of his suitcases. “Don’t make your mother do all your work, René.”

Grantaire takes the case without a word.

\--

Map, room assignment, and luggage barely in hand, Grantaire heads toward the senior dormitory. It’s a struggle, but he makes it to Corinth Hall to sign in at the office before climbing the stairs. He nearly makes it to the top before an errant student going down knocks him in the shoulder, toppling the balance of papers, shoulder bags, and luggage onto the staircase landing below him.

Grantaire wants to curse, but before the string of choice words make their way out of his mouth, there’s a hand grabbing the largest of the toppled cargo. “Let me help you with that,” a voice says.

Grantaire looks up to see another boy in Musain colors. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done.”

“Not a problem,” the boy responds. “What’s your room number? I’m already unpacked, and I’d be happy to help you.”

“16.”

“No way, that’s my room! I mean, we were bound to meet sooner or later, but that’s so crazy. Meeting you here. Like this.”

Grantaire blushes as he gathers the last of his belongings off the landing. “Yeah, sorry about that. My parents… they’re not really good at goodbyes. They kind of left me to do… everything.”

The boy nods. “My name’s Adrien. Adrien Combeferre. I’d shake your hand, but, well… I have no hands.”

A small smile creeps over Grantaire’s face. “Yeah, same here. My name’s René Grantaire. I normally just go by R.”

The two boys make it to their room without another spill. Combeferre sets Grantaire’s belongings on his bed before pulling out the chair from the desk on the opposite side of the room and sitting down. “So, you’re new?”

Grantaire opens a suitcase and begins filtering his clothes into his small chest of drawers. “Father was promoted at his law firm in the city. With the promotion came a new house outside Manhattan. He commutes now, Mother takes care of the house, and I’m here.”

“Do you miss your friends at your old school?”

_Friends._

“Um… no. Not really.”

Before Combeferre can reply, there’s a knock at the open door. Grantaire looks over his shoulder to see a group of boys standing just outside. One of them leans against the door jamb. “Adrien! We expected you ages ago! Where have you been?”

“Sorry guys, was just getting to know my new roommate.” Combeferre waves the boys inside. “Everyone, this is René. René, these are my friends: Pontmercy, Courfeyrac, Joly, Prouvaire, Bahorel, and Feuilly.”

Grantaire just stands and looks at all of them blankly.

“We like last names,” Combeferre finally adds.

\--

Grantaire wasn’t really _invited_ as much as _expected_ go to with everyone down to the dining hall when it was dinner time. He mostly keeps to himself and listens as they discuss study groups, class schedules, and which teachers they could expect an easy term from, which was none of them.

Grantaire focuses intently on his green beans when someone kicks him in the shin. Looking up, he saw Prouvaire – _Jehan_ – looking at him from across the table, smiling. “You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?”

Grantaire didn’t answer.

“Don’t worry, R. You’ll get the hang of it.”

Grantaire hopes that Jehan’s words would prove true. This was going to be a very long year if they didn’t.


	2. The First Day

“Gentlemen, what are the four pillars?”

In the Meeting Hall, every boy in a Musain blazer stands, including Grantaire, even though he doesn’t know why.

The hall answers back. “Tradition. Honor. Discipline. Excellence.”

Grantaire would have thought the sound of nearly 200 young men reciting the same four words beautiful if he wasn’t scared out of his oxfords.

When all of the students seat themselves again, Headmaster Javert, the man who asked the question, starts again. “This institution has been shaped by those four pillars since its inception 125 years ago. Since Musain graduated its first class back in 1834, the boys that have passed through the halls of Musain have gone on to Harvard, Yale, Dartmouth, even Oxford and Cambridge.” Headmaster Javert had been scanning the room throughout his speech, but seems to stop at Grantaire when he says, “And I expect the same from all of you.”

Grantaire wants to melt into the ages-old wooden bench he was sitting on.

Headmaster Javert went on about his expectations for the year, until he looks to his right and stops. “Most of you know of the retirement of Mr. Lanoire from the English department last term. We would like to welcome his replacement to the Musain faculty, Mr. Jean Valjean. A former graduate of Musain, he comes to us from the highly regarded Plumet School in Paris. I hope you will give him a warm welcome.”

When announced, a tall stately gentleman rose from where he was seated. Mr. Valjean could easily have been called the youngest faculty member up on the dais; at least that was what Grantaire thought. Valjean smiles and raises his hand slightly in acknowledgement before sitting down again.

Grantaire remembers Valjean’s name on his schedule, so perhaps one class this term wouldn’t be a complete disaster.

\--

Grantaire wants to kill himself.

First period Chemistry already has homework due tomorrow. Second period Latin with Mr. Myriel goes well, but Grantaire can tell a lot of what he learned last year hasn’t stuck, and it’s going to be an uphill battle. Third period Trigonometry with Dr. Thenardier is going to keep him up so many nights this term he doesn’t want to think about it.

And then there’s fourth period English.

The rest of the class shuffles in and find their desks, laughing and carrying on as they do so. Mr. Valjean is nowhere to be seen, but at some point, someone begins to whistle. A hush falls over the room as the missing Mr. Valjean, who is still whistling, exits the teacher’s washroom and walks through the desks toward the back of the classroom and out the door without so much as a by-your-leave.

Grantaire and his friends sit stunned before Valjean pops his head back in the door. “Well, what are you still sitting there for? Come on!”

Still confused, the class gets up and follows Mr. Valjean. He takes them to the foyer, where Musain’s trophy cases stand. The class gathers in the middle of the foyer facing Mr. Valjean. Ever the contrarian, Courfeyrac stands alone by the door, away from everyone else.

“Oh Captain, My Captain… who knows where that comes from,” Valjean asks.

The class stands silent.

“Not a clue? It’s from a poem by Walt Whitman about Mr. Abraham Lincoln.”

Valjean smiles. “Now, in this class you can call me Mr. Valjean, or, if you’re slightly more daring, Oh Captain, My Captain.”

The boys laugh.

“I know the faculty at this academy changes as often as the sun stands still,” Valjean begins. “But let me put a few rumors to rest before they turn into legend. Yes, I did attend Musain, and survived. Hold this fact close, boys, because you’ll need it when you go up against Mr. Thenardier’s exams.”

A nervous chuckle went through the boys as Valjean looks to his class roster. “Mr… Feuilly. Which one of you is Feuilly?” Feuilly slowly raised his hand. “Good. Would you open your textbook to page 492 and read the first stanza on the page.”

The students who brought their textbooks turn to the correct page, and when Feuilly finds it, he looks up at Valjean. “ _To The Virgins to Make Much of Time_?”

Valjean nods. “By Robert Herrick. Go ahead, Mr. Feuilly.”

Feuilly starts. “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, old time is still a-flying: and this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying.”

“Thank you, Mr. Feuilly,” Valjean says. “’Gather ye rosebuds while ye may’… underneath that flowery language is a simple thought. In Latin, we would say _Carpe Diem_. Does anyone know what that means?”

Joly raises his hand. “Carpe Diem, it means ‘seize the day’.”

Valjean smiles. “Correct. Thank you, Mr…”

“Joly, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Joly. Gentlemen, why would Herrick and the ancient Romans use these two phrases?”

Courfeyrac answers. “Because they couldn’t think of anything else better to say?”

Valjean laughs. “Far from it, but a good effort. Herrick and the Romans are trying to stress that youth is fleeting. All the picked flowers, all the wars won and lost, all the power obtained through wealth and status, it doesn’t matter, because we will eventually be food for worms. We will all eventually take our last breath, grow cold, and die.”

Valjean steps back and gestures toward the trophy cases. “Come up and take a look, boys.” The class comes up to the glass as Valjean continues, walking behind them as they look at the pictures and trophies. “I’m sure a good portion of you don’t take the time to look at these relics as you move from class to class. I certainly didn’t while I was here. However, it’s important to remember that these boys, these Musain boys, were just like you. They had fears, they had triumphs, they had hope in their eyes. They thought themselves invincible, just like you feel right now. That the world was their oyster.

“Do you think that these boys waited to make something of themselves? Do you think they let the world pass them by? Because, gentleman, many, if not all of these bright young men, are now fertilizing daffodils.” Valjean leans in, joining the students. “But if you listen, you may just hear them whisper their legacy to you.”

Many of the boys look back at Valjean, confused. “Go on,” Valjean implores. “Lean in. Listen to what they have to say.”

Transfixed, they do. They crowd the glass, focused on the decades-old pictures.  It’s quiet, like a single breath will break the spell.

But there is a breath. A harsh whisper.

A call from a time gone by.

“Carpe.”

“Carpe.”

“Carpe diem.”

“Seize the day, boys.”

“Make your lives extraordinary.”

\--

“What _was_ that?”

“It certainly was… different.”

“Spooky, if you ask me.”

“Do you think Valjean will test us on that?”

“Jesus Christ, Bossuet! Don’t you get _anything_?”

“…what?”


	3. Interlude 1 - The Lark

Marius doesn’t even know why he has to do this.

It doesn’t make sense, representing his father at a dinner with a family he barely knows. I mean, who does that?

But, he’s a good son of Mr. George Pontmercy, corporate lawyer, so he does as he’s told. He goes with Dr. Thenardier, who drives him into New Rochelle to the house of Mr. and Mrs. Lamarque, where Thenardier drops him off to return and collect him in a few hours.

When Marius rings the Lamarque’s doorbell, he can hear commotion on the other side. When the door opens, the world stands still.

In front of Marius is the most beautiful girl he has ever seen in his entire life.

“May I help you,” the girl asks.

Marius has no answer.

“Are you here for Charlie?”

Marius finds his voice. “No. Um… Marius. That’s my name. Marius Pontmercy. This is the Lamarque’s house, right?”

The girl smiles. “It is.”

“Mrs. Lamarque?”

The girl looks at him in shock. “Oh god, no. My name’s Cosette –“

“Cosette, dear? Who’s at the door?”

Cosette looks back inside the house. “He says his name is Marius, Mrs. Lamarque.”

An older women joins Cosette at the door. “Marius, come in! We’ve been expecting you.”

As he follows Mrs. Lamarque inside, Marius answers her questions by rote, instead watching as Cosette floats through the house.

And into the arms of a boy who can only be Charlie Lamarque.


	4. Common Room

Grantaire begs off the Trig study group and stays in his room while Combeferre and the rest go and camp out in the third floor common room. While it may have been unusual, Valjean’s speech this afternoon affected him more than he let on to the rest.

Grantaire knows that he’s not the best student. He also knows that he’s not his parents’ favorite son. That title goes to his older brother, Gavroche. Gavroche, who never got anything below an A. Gavroche, captain of the rugby team. Gavroche, currently following in Father’s footsteps and working toward a law degree at Harvard. He wants to do right by his family, but where everything came easy to Gavroche, nothing comes easy to René. He works for every grade he gets in school, every goal in every soccer match he’s played in, every friend he has ever made.

It’s been unusual how Combeferre and his friends have accepted him into their circle without Grantaire having to put the effort into it. He’s not sure whether it’s just because of his proximity or if they actually enjoy his company, but it feels… natural.

Even with that, Grantaire knows that there could be more. He doesn’t want to be a lawyer like Father, or a banker, or a doctor, but he knows that’s what’s expected. To tow the Grantaire family line. He doesn’t know whether to believe Valjean’s statement: that today is what matters because we don’t know what will happen tomorrow. It seems so simple, but so difficult at the same time.

Almost as a reminder to himself, he takes his pen in hand and scrawls **SEIZE THE DAY**  in big, block letters on his notebook sitting on the desk in front of him.

And then, after a few moments, tears it out.

And grabs his notebook and Chemistry textbook and heads toward the common room.

\--

Grantaire finds a table in the common room to do his Chemistry homework. It’s surprising, considering how crowded the room is.

And noisy.

It’s a slow process, but he blocks out the cacophony and focuses. No matter what Valjean says, the coursework is here, right now, in front of him, and it needs to be finished. Seizing the day can wait until his homework is done.

Grantaire looks up when the door to the common room opens and sees Marius close it behind him. Courfeyrac, Bousset, and Combeferre, who are working alongside Joly and Feuilly, also look up. “So, how’d it go,” Courfeyrac asks.

“Terrible,” Marius responds. “Absolutely terrible.”

“Really? I consider any night without ingesting Musain Mess a good night.”

“No, no. It wasn’t that. You guys… I met the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

“What’s wrong with that,” Combeferre asks.

“She was attached at the hip all night… to Charlie Lamarque.”

The group groans in sympathy. Musain may be outside New Rochelle, but the boys of Musain would be hard pressed not to know of the exploits and prowess of the star of the New Rochelle High Huguenots, Charlie Lamarque.  A three-sport athlete with the looks of James Dean, the Lamarque mystique reaches far and wide, even to the green fields of Musain.

“It’s a tragedy. She’s like… sunlight. He’s such a jerk, and she just can’t see it.”

“All the good ones go for jerks,” Feuilly adds.

“Just forget about her, Marius,” Bossuet said. “Come on, there’s a problem Adrien and I can’t figure out. You can help us.”

“I can’t just forget her, Michel. And there’s no way I’ll be working out a Trig problem set at a time like this.”

Before anyone else could console Marius in his misery, Thenardier enters the common room announcing curfew.

As he’s gathering his homework, Courfeyrac leans over. “Did you see her naked?”

“Ha, ha, ha. Very funny, Couf. Very funny.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I want to thank you for continuing to read this, even though there's not a sign of Enjolras anywhere. I promise, he'll be here soon, then all hell will break loose. ;)
> 
> Also, New Rochelle High's mascot really are [the Huguenots](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Rochelle_High_School). I love it when fic location scouting proves to be serendipitous.


	5. The Powerful Play

Another day, another English class.

Valjean sits behind his desk, with the classes’ textbook sitting in front of him. “Gentleman, please turn to the first page of the introduction of your textbook. Mr. Combeferre, would you read the first paragraph of the preface, please.”

Combeferre clears his throat and begins. “Understanding Poetry, by Dr. J. Evans Pritchard, Ph.D. To fully understand poetry, we must first be fluent with its meter, rhyme, and figures of speech, then ask two questions: one, how artfully has the objective of the poem been rendered, and two, how important is that objective. Question one rates the poem's perfection, question two rates its importance. And once these questions have been answered, determining a poem's greatness becomes a relatively simple matter.”

Valjean rises from his desk and moves back toward the chalkboard.

Combeferre continues. “If the poem's score for perfection is plotted along the horizontal of a graph, and its importance is plotted on the vertical, then calculating the total area of the poem yields the measure of its greatness.”

Valjean follows Combeferre’s instruction and begins to draw the graph on the chalkboard. Bossuet copies it down as well.

“A sonnet by Byron may score high on the vertical, but only average on the horizontal. A Shakespearean sonnet, on the other hand, would score high both horizontally and vertically, yielding a massive total area, thereby revealing the poem to be truly great.

As you proceed through the poetry in this book, practice this rating method. As your ability to evaluate poems in this matter grows, so will your enjoyment and understanding of poetry.”

After finishing the graph, complete with mathematical formula, Valjean turns to face the class. “Dr. J. Evans Pritchard, Ph.D. is talking out his ass, if you’ll pardon my French. Poetry is something to be felt, something to be experienced, not something to be measured on a scale like American Bandstand.”

All of a sudden, a glimmer shines behind Valjean’s eyes. “I want you to rip out that page.”

No one moves.

“Go on, rip it out! It’s not sacred text, gentleman!”

From the back of the classroom, a tear is heard, followed by Courfeyrac holding his page above his head.

“Thank you, Mr. Courfeyrac!” Valjean walks around the classroom as each boy gathers their courage and tear out their own respective pages. “Tell you what, don’t just tear out the one page, tear out the whole introduction. I want nothing of it left in your textbooks! I want to hear nothing but the ripping of Mr. Pritchard.”

Bossuet, who sits in front of Combeferre, turns back to him. “Adrien, this isn’t right. We’re gonna get in trouble for this.”

Valjean goes into his washroom. “Make a clean tear. I want nothing left!”

Combeferre laughs while tearing out his own pages. “Live a little, Michel! Go on! Rip them out!”

Wary, Bossuet turns back to his book. After looking at it for a score of seconds, he carefully tears out the introduction, page by page. The other boys are having a hey-day, ripping out dozens of onionskin sheets in clumps, and with none of the care or gentleness that Bossuet showed for his text.

“What the hell is going on?”

The boys look back to see Mr. Myriel standing in the doorway, staring like they just got caught with all of their hands in the largest cookie jar known to exist.

“I don’t hear enough ripping,” Valjean says, exiting the washroom, wastepaper basket in hand. “Oh, Mr. Myriel. Good afternoon.”

“Mr. Valjean! You’re here.”

“Yes, I am.”

“So you are. I’ll… I’ll leave you to your… teaching.” Myriel backs out of the classroom and shuts the door behind him.

With the wind out of their respective sails, Valjean does another round of the classroom, now with basket in hand for the boys to deposit their Pritchards. “This is a battle, gentlemen. It’s as important as any war, and the casualties could very well be your hearts and souls.

In my class, you will learn to think for yourselves. You will learn to savor words and language. No matter what they tell you out there, words and ideas can change the world. Now, you might say that literature has nothing to do with law school or medical school. You may also say that it’s easier to study the windbag Mr. Pritchard and learn your rhyme and meter and be on your way toward bigger and better things, but I have a secret for you.”

Valjean moves to the middle of the desks and waves the boys toward him. “Huddle up.”

Again, everyone stays put.

“Huddle up, boys!”

Slowly, the boys move in, surrounding Valjean as he moves to crouch within their group.

“We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race, and the human race is filled with _passion_. Medicine, law, business, engineering; these are all noble pursuits, and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive _for_.

To quote from Whitman: ‘O me, o life of the questions of these recurring, of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities filled with the foolish. What good amid these, o me, o life? Answer: that you are _here_. That life _exists_ , and identity. That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.’”

While reciting the passage from _Leaves of Grass_ , Valjean scans the eyes of each student standing around him, until he ends with Grantaire.

“What will _your_ verse be?”

\--

Another day, another serving of Musain Mess.

The boys take up their own table, books in hand as well as full plates. Grantaire is focused up at the faculty tables, watching Valjean talk with Myriel as they pass the mashed potatoes between them. “Do you think Valjean is going to get in trouble for the stunt he pulled the other day?”

“What, The Removal of Pritchard,” Feuilly asks.

“Yeah. I mean, Myriel was pretty upset when he walked in on us.”

Courfeyrac leans across the table. “If anything were to happen, it would have happened already. Be easy, R. At least our English books are lighter for our trouble.”

A quiet laugh goes between the boys at the table until Combeferre fits himself between Courfeyrac and Marius. “Guys, I found Valjean’s senior annual in the library.”

Combeferre passes it over to Bossuet. “Captain of the soccer team, editor of the school annual, Cambridge bound, Thigh Man, and Les Amis des Poètes Morts.”

“Whoa, Thigh Man? Mr. V was a hell-raiser,” Courfeyrac comments.

“What’s Les Amis des Poètes Morts,” Marius asks.

“I don’t know, I didn’t take French,” Combeferre says. “Joly?”

Jehan pipes up. “Friends of the Dead Poets.”

“Anything else about it in the annual,” Bahorel asks.

“Not one word,” Combeferre replies.

\--

After lunch, the boys follow Valjean out onto the green. “Mr. Valjean! Mr. Valjean!”

Valjean turns. “Gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

Combeferre hands Valjean the annual. “We found this.”

Valjean takes the book and scans the pages. “Somehow I don’t think you just ‘found’ it, did you Mr. Combeferre?”

Combeferre smiles. “No, sir.”

When he comes to his own photograph, Valjean crouches down on the grass. “My, my. That doesn’t even look like me.”

“Sir,” Combeferre starts. “What was Les Amis des Poètes Morts?”

Valjean’s face sours. “I don’t think Headmaster Javert would like me talking to you about that.”

“Why? What was it?”

Valjean beckons the boys closer. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course.”

“The Les Amis were dedicated to sucking the marrow out of life. That's a phrase from Thoreau that we'd invoke at the beginning of each meeting. You see, we'd gather at the old Indian cave and take turns reading from Hugo, Thoreau, Whitman, Shelley; the biggies. Even some of our own verse. And in the enchantment of the moment, we'd let poetry work its magic.”

“So what you’re saying,” Marius starts. “Is that it was just a bunch of guys sitting around reading poetry?”

“No, Mr. Pontmercy,” Valjean says. “It wasn't just ‘guys’, and we didn't just read poetry; we let it drip from our tongues like honey. Spirits soared, women swooned, and _gods_ were created, gentlemen.” Valjean smiles. “Not a bad way to spend an evening, eh?”

Valjean returns the book to Combeferre. “Thank you, Mr. Combeferre, for reminding me just how many wrinkles I’ve garnered since the last time I walked this green. Please burn that. It doesn’t do anyone any good.”

With that, Valjean leaves the boys and walks down toward the lake.

“Les Amis,” Combeferre mutters to himself, then stands. “I say we go. Tonight.”

In the distance, the bell begins to ring the start of the next period.

“What,” Bossuet asks.

“Tonight?” Courfeyrac adds.

“Sure. I know where the cave is. It’s beyond the stream. It’s easy.”

“Not in the dark, it isn’t,” Feuilly says.

“It sounds boring.”

“Then don’t go, Bossuet,” Courfeyrac retorts.

“Do you know how many demerits we’d get if we got caught?”

“Then. Don’t. Come. Stay inside Corinth clutching your Trig book for all I care.”

“Look, all I’m saying is that we have to be careful.”

“Like we’re gonna scream bloody murder all the way down to the cave, Bossuet. Are you an idiot?”

From the school building, Dr. Thenardier sees them still on the green and calls out to them. “You boys! Hurry up!”

They start to run back inside, but Combeferre stops them. “All right, who’s in?”

“Adrien? What are you doing? Thenardier’s right there,” Bossuet hisses.

“Screw Thenardier. Who’s in?”

Courfeyrac is the first to answer. “I’m in.”

Bossuet sighs. “Me too.”

“I don’t know, Adrien,” Feuilly starts. “Montparnasse’s history class is really kicking my butt.”

“Then Joly will tutor you. You’re coming,” Combeferre says with finality. “Joly, you’re coming, right?”

Joly shrugs. “I’ll try anything once.”

The boys continue their run back to the school. “What about you, Marius,” Courfeyrac asks.

“I don’t know, Couf.”

“Why not? It’ll help you get Cosette.”

“Really? How?”

“Women swoon, Marius!” Courfeyrac laughs and runs inside.

“But why? Why do they swoon? Couf, tell me! Why do they swoon?”


	6. The Cave

After dinner, Jehan procures a map from the library and brings it back to one of Musain’s study halls.

Everyone is waiting.

Everyone except Grantaire.

Myriel is the teacher on duty tonight, so while the boys are at their usual table discussing the best way to the cave, he sits and corrects Latin homework across the room, admonishing them when they become too loud.

Grantaire is sitting at one of the tables when Combeferre comes over and joins him. “R, are you coming tonight?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Why not? You were there, R. You heard Valjean. Don’t you want to do something?”

“Of course I do, but…”

“But, what?”

“He… Valjean said that everyone took turns reading, and I… I don’t want to do that.”

Combeferre sits stunned. “Is that all? R, we don’t have to be just like Valjean. Just come and listen. Be a part of it. Just be there.”

“That’s not how it’s supposed to work, Adrien.”

“Forget how it works. If the rest of them agree with me, will you come?”

“What, you’re just gonna ask them?”

Combeferre gives Grantaire a small shrug before standing and returning to the boys and the map.

Grantaire hangs his head.

\--

As the floor gets ready for bed, Combeferre finds Grantaire brushing his teeth amidst the sea of plaid in the third floor washroom.

“You’re in.”

\--

Grantaire returns to his room to find Combeferre getting ready. On the bed are his coat, his flashlight, and a large blue book with dozens of dog-eared pages.

“What’s that, Adrien,” Grantaire says, nodding toward the book.

“Valjean left it. Take a look.”

Grantaire takes the book and runs a hand over the front cover before opening it. Inside, he finds what Combeferre wanted him to see – the opening for the Les Amis meetings written on the book’s title page, handwritten by Valjean himself.

“You take it, R,” Combeferre says. “You’ll keep it safe. I’m sure of it.”

\--

After getting past Thenardier, as well as Montreuil and Montfermeil, Corinth’s guard dogs, the boys make their way across the misty quad toward the forest. Once past the tree line, Combeferre picks up the path that runs by the stream and the rest of them follow him deeper into the forest.

After running through the trees like madmen, they come across the ridge that Combeferre says the cave is in. They all slowly climb down and look for it, until they hear Courfeyrac yell – “Arrgh, I’m a dead poet! Guys, I found it!”

Slowly, they all make their way down the ridge and file into the cave. What they find are half-rotting leaves, sticks, and wet stones inside a large dome with an opening in the top letting what moonlight there was in. Bahorel begins to start a fire, but just ends up making more smoke than anything else.

“Guys, guys. Forget the fire,” Combeferre interjects. “There’s enough moonlight.”

Taking a drag from one of Courfeyrac’s contraband cigarettes, Combeferre begins. “I hereby reconvene the Les Amis des Poètes Morts, Musain chapter.”

A sarcastic cheer rises from the rest.

“The meetings will be conducted by myself and the other new initiates now present. René Grantaire, because he prefers not to read, will take minutes of the meetings. I’ll now read the traditional opening message by society member Henry David Thoreau.”

Combeferre takes Valjean’s book from Grantaire and opens it to the title page. “‘I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.’”

“Amen to that,” Courfeyrac adds.

Combeferre begins again. “‘To put to rout all that was not life, and not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived.’”

You could cut the silence inside the cave with a knife.

\--

After a couple of half-attempted ghost stories from Feuilly and Bossuet, Courfeyrac stands up. “So, do you want to hear a real poem?”

Joly goes to hand Courfeyrac Valjean’s book, but he refuses. “No need, my friend. This is an original Lucas Courfeyrac.”

“An original Lucas Courfeyrac,” Marius scoffs.

“Shut up, Marius,” Courfeyrac says as he pulls a piece of paper from his pants pocket. As he unfolds it, it’s revealed to be a Playboy centerfold: Miss October 1959, bare-breasted to the world.

“Where did you get that,” Bossuet yells.

Courfeyrac ignores Bossuet and clears his throat. “Teach me to love? Go teach thyself more wit. I, chief professor, am of it.”

As the boys listen, Combeferre moves behind Courfeyrac to see exactly what’s going on behind Miss October 1959.

“The god of love,” Courfeyrac continues. “If such a thing there be, may learn to love from me.”

As Courfeyrac’s captive audience cheers, he turns the centerfold around to show the handwritten poem, winking at them as he does so. Combeferre then takes the book from Joly and opens it to one of the tabbed pages and sits.

“Alfred Lord Tennyson. 'Come my friends, 'tis not too late to seek a newer world, for my purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset. And though we are not now that strength, which in old days moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;-- One equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time and fate, but strong in will. To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.’”

When Combeferre looks up from the page, his smile is a mile wide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bless me, that was a long wait between chapters. My apologies - work, bake sales, and more work got in the way this past week.
> 
> I also greatly appreciate the time that you all are taking to read this, even if you don't comment or leave kudos. We are really sticking close to DPS-canon for the moment, and where some may consider this lazy writing, believe me that there's a lot of thought being put into what stays and what gets changed or modified.
> 
> And once Enjy gets his nose into the Les Amis, there will be plenty of original content. Be easy, readers, Patria Is Coming. :)


	7. Comprehensible, Direct, and Approachable

“Now, language was developed for one purpose, and that is…”

Valjean scans the room for a student to call on, and he stops in front of Grantaire. “Mr. Grantaire? Do you have an answer?”

Grantaire just stares at him, mouth open like a fish.

Valjean takes pity on him and moves on. “Mr. Combeferre.”

“To… communicate?”

“No, to woo the fairer sex, but we’ll talk about that later. Now, we study Shakespeare, boys.”

Valjean raises his hand to stop the groan that rises from the class. “I know, a lot of you look forward to this about as much as you look forward to getting your wisdom teeth pulled. We're going to talk about Shakespeare as someone who writes something very interesting, because he does.

“Now, many of you may think that Shakespeare is all incomprehensible British accents, flowery language that no one understands, and togas worn by unapproachable actors. But if anything can be proved by a Mr. Marlon Brando playing Marc Antony in _Julius Caesar_ , it’s that there are as many interpretations of Shakespeare as there are grains of sand.”

Valjean moves back to the front of the classroom and sits on his desk. “Shakespeare’s works aren’t something to be scared of, gentlemen; they’re something to be savored, like fine wine. Shakespeare was a playwright for the people, which means he had to be accessible to those people. The same things you deal with as students: love, jealousy, ambition, happiness, despair, it’s all there in _Romeo and Juliet_ , _Macbeth_ , _King Lear_ , _Much Ado About Nothing_ , and many others. He wrote for royalty, but his paying audiences were the uneducated groundlings of The Globe.”

Reaching for his copy of their textbook, Valjean takes it and opens it. “Now, who’s in the mood to be a king for a day?”

A few of the students raise their hand, including Marius. “Mr. Pontmercy, you’ve just volunteered to be Henry V. Congratulations. Please turn to page 275.”

As Marius turns to the correct page, Valjean continues. “Now boys, Marius is going to be reading Henry’s speech to the English army at the battle of Harfleur. By this time in his life, Henry has been king for two years. As the Prince of Wales, he wasn’t living up to the responsibilities that his father, King Henry IV, expected of him. Instead of staying near the royal court, he preferred to spend his time in bars down in Cheapside and associated himself with robbers and drunkards. However, when the king died, Henry understood that he was now the leader of an entire nation and that his reputation as an irresponsible prince would need to change if his people were going to going to follow him anywhere.

“The battle of Harfleur was a part of Henry’s campaign to regain control of France, control that he thought was given to him through certain birthrights, and it was not going well. Henry’s army was fighting not only the French, but an outbreak of dysentery which left his army weakened and stretched out the siege of this port town that should have been easy pickings.”

Valjean stops and looks at Marius. “Marius, I want you to imagine yourself in front of this massive wall. It’s cold. It’s rainy. You’re covered in mud, blood, and much worse. Your army is in front of you, weakened by disease and disheartened by that same damned wall. There’s cannon fire coming from that wall. There are dead bodies all around you. It’s a warzone, and your army is looking to you. You’re their king, their leader. You’re the one that’s going to get them out of this hell. What do you say to them?”

Valjean nods at Marius, prompting him to begin.

Marius starts. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, or close the wall up with our English dead! In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility, but when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger: stiffen the sinews, conjure up the blood, disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage. Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; let it pry through the portage of the head like the brass cannon. Let the brow o'erwhelm it as fearfully as doth a… galled rock?”

“Gall-ed rock. Please continue, Marius. You’re doing excellent.”

Marius does. “O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide, hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit to his full height. On! On, you noble English, whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof, fathers that, like so many Alexanders, have in these parts from morn till even fought and sheathed their swords for lack of argument. Dishonor not your mothers; now attest that those whom you called fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood and teach them how to war.”

Grantaire watches Marius and thinks he can almost see when what Marius is reading finally clicks for him.

“And you good yeomen, whose limbs were made in England, show us here the mettle of your pasture. Let us swear that you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not, for there is none of you so mean and base that hath not noble luster in your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, straining upon the start. The game's afoot: follow your spirit, and upon this charge cry ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’”

Marius looks up at Valjean. “It’s… he’s giving them back their courage! Showing that he believes in them as much as they believe in him.”

“The sign of a good king. Thank you, Mr. Pontmercy.”

Bahorel raises his hand. “Mr. Valjean? Did they win?”

“Well, Mr. Bahorel, you’re just going to have to read the play and find out.”

Valjean turns back to his desk, then suddenly stands on it. “The way that Mr. Pontmercy portrayed King Henry just now may not be the way I would have done it, or the way that Mr. Prouvaire there in the back may have done it. It’s all about personal interpretation and seeing different things in the same character, just like the difference between Mr. Brando and a certain Mr. Laurence Olivier, the purveyor of all things incomprehensible, flowery, and unapproachable. Why am I standing on my desk?”

“To feel taller,” Courfeyrac answers.

“Oh, Mr. Courfeyrac, no, it’s not. Thank you for playing, anyway. I stand upon this hopefully sturdy desk to remind myself that we must constantly look at things in a different way.”

Valjean scans the room. “You see, the world looks very different from up here. Don’t believe me? See for yourself.”

None of the boys move from their desks.

“Come on! I promise there will be no desecration of textbooks with this exercise.”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre are the first to accept the challenge and join Valjean on top of his desk. “Just when you think you know something, you have to look at it in another way, even though it may seem silly or wrong, you must try! Now, when you read, don't just consider what the _author_ thinks. Consider what _you_ think.”

Valjean jumps down and walks toward the back of the classroom as the class join Courfeyrac and Combeferre, a few of them taking in the view at a time and jumping off themselves.

“Boys, you must strive to find your own voice, because the longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are to find it at all. Thoreau said, ‘Most men lead lives of quiet desperation.’ Don't be resigned to that. Break out!”

The bell rings while more boys go over the cliff of Valjean’s desk.

“Now, in addition to your essays, I would like you to compose a poem of your own, an original work.”

The groan from the beginning of class returns.

“That's right! You have to deliver it aloud in front of the class on Monday.”

The boys collect their books and leave the room as Valjean stands watch at the door. As he goes to turn off the light, Valjean looks back to see Grantaire standing on the desk, the last of the boys to reach the summit.

“Mr. Grantaire, don't think that I don't know that this assignment scares the hell out of you the most.”

Valjean shuts the lights off, leaving Grantaire standing on the desk, the only light in the room coming from the open windows and the overcast sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stretching out my Theatre major. Hope no one minds. :)


	8. Individualization

Grantaire is lying on his bed, pen and paper in hand. Valjean was right, he is scared of this assignment, but he’s not going to just leave it alone. Each line he writes, then strikes through, means something better is going to come down the line.

He just knows it.

It has to.

As Grantaire is scribbling out yet another start to yet another poem, Combeferre bursts through the door. “I found it!”

“What did you find, Adrien?”

“What I really want to do.”

Combeferre shows Grantaire a flyer. “ _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_? Shakespeare, Adrien?”

“Right! They’re putting it on at Hadley Hall, and there’s open tryouts! Open tryouts, R!”

“But you’ve never acted a day in your life.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t start! I’ve wanted to try this for ages, and now I finally have a chance.”

“Adrien, it’s not that easy. You have to get permission from your parents, not to mention Headmaster Javert, for off-campus activities. If your father is as bad as mine… how are you going to do it?”

“First I have to get a part; I’ll worry about the rest later.”

“And getting to the audition in the first place?”

Combeferre gives Grantaire the fiercest look he’s ever seen on his best friends’ face. “As far as I’m concerned, my father never even needs to know.”

“That’s impossible, Adrien.”

“Bullshit! Nothing’s impossible, René. Carpe diem, remember?”

Combeferre falls back on his own bed and sighs. “At least if I don’t ask, he can’t say no.”

“But maybe if you tried—“

“Jesus, René!” Combeferre shouts. “ _Are you even on my side_?”

Grantaire shrinks back into the corner his bed is in, avoiding Combeferre’s gaze.

Combeferre looks over at Grantaire. “I haven’t even got a part yet, R. Can’t I at least enjoy the thought for a little while?”

Deflated, Combeferre takes back the flyer and sits on the radiator underneath their lone window and looks out over the Musain campus while Grantaire returns to his poem.

“Are you going to come to the meeting tonight,” Combeferre asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Combeferre shifts to look at Grantaire. “Nothing Valjean has to say means anything to you, does it?”

Grantaire puts down his pen. “Now what is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re in the club, R! Being in the club means… being stirred up by things. You look as stirred up as a cesspool.”

“So, do you want me out, then?”

Combeferre stands and moves in front of Grantaire. “ _No_ , René. I want you _in_ , but you have to do more than just say you’re in.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Adrien. I’m not like you. I’m not like you or Lucas or Marius… or the rest of you. You all say things and… people listen. I’m…I’m not like that.”

Combeferre kneels. “But you can be, don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t see, but that’s not the point. The point is that I can take care of myself just fine, and you can just… butt out of it, okay?”

Combeferre stares at Grantaire, then smiles. “No, I don’t believe I will.”

“What?”

“I said no.”

Combeferre grabs Grantaire’s notebook and runs to the other side of the room. Grantaire chases after him. “Give that back, Adrien!”

The two boys run around the room, jumping on desks, chairs, and beds. “I will, if you agree to go to tryouts with me.”

Grantaire stops dead in his tracks. “What?”

“You heard what I said, René. Come to tryouts with me. The worst thing that can happen is that you don’t get in. What is there to lose?”

“Besides my dignity?”

“Not even that. Come to tryouts with me, or I open this door and read what you think is your horrible poetry to Courfeyrac and Bossuet across the hall.”

Combeferre bounds to the door and has his hand on the handle when Grantaire shouts, “Okay, fine! I’ll… I’ll come with you.”

Combeferre shoots Grantaire the brightest smile he thinks he’s ever seen.

“Don’t think I won’t forget that you’re blackmailing me, Adrien.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 6/26/13: demonsofthemoon @tumblr wrote a poem for this fic: [Sonnet 14](http://praisethejellyfishes.tumblr.com/post/53612409416/sonnet-14)
> 
> Readers, you really have no idea how excited I was when this came across my inbox. Please read it, Meeni's work is AMAZING, and look out for another one of their poems later in this fic. :)


	9. Interlude 2 - The Fighting Huguenots

It’s like a barrier has been broken in Marius’ soul. His encounter with King Henry V has emboldened him into doing something rash, like going into town and actually talking to Cosette.

But first he has to get past… well, everyone.

Taking his bicycle from Corinth’s bike rack, he casually rides it down the main driveway and out to the stone gate marking the end of the Musain campus. Then, making sure that no one is watching, Marius makes a break for it and rides in the direction of New Rochelle.

Westchester County in the fall is something that doesn’t get noticed while school is in session – essays and exams and problem sets get in the way of just… existing among the trees, birds, and blue sky. While on the main highway, Marius passes by a flock of Canadian geese resting by the small dam that helps create Musain’s lake and decides, for once in his life, to not care about consequences. It’s because of this that Marius finds himself riding down the hillside toward the unsuspecting flock, whooping and hollering as he fights to keep control of his metal steed. In turn, the flock rises up in the air before him, a sea of brown, black, and white with the sound of… honking geese.

Marius has never had so much fun in his entire life.

\--

When Marius finally gets to New Rochelle High, he finds the school in a state of excitement.

More specifically, the Huguenots are having a pep rally.

The parking lot is a sea of purple and white. Students are filing out of the buildings toward the school buses talking about how they’re going to crush Saint-Michel, and the Huguenot Pep Band is in full swing, revving the crowd into a frenzy. In front of the buses is the Huguenot Cheer Squad, and from behind several rows of cars, Marius spots Cosette, pom-poms in hand.

Marius stands there entranced as other New Rochelle High students walk by, unable to take his eyes off Cosette as she and her fellow cheerleaders dance in time with the pep band. Her smile is infectious and her golden hair gleams in the bright fall sunshine.

It’s perfect, and just as Marius gathers up his courage to go over and talk to her, a teacher on a bullhorn directs all the students to gather on the buses.

All the students, including the football team.

The New Rochelle High football team, including star quarterback Charlie Lamarque.

Charlie Lamarque, who sidles up to Cosette, picks her up, and carries her to the bus, both of them laughing like they don’t have a care in the world.

Missing his chance, Marius gets back on his bike and begins the journey back to Musain.


	10. Oberon

Later that evening, Combeferre and Grantaire ride their bicycles into New Rochelle as well. Their stop is Hadley Hall, New Rochelle’s community event center. After locking up their bikes, the two go inside and see a swarm of people inside Hadley’s auditorium. At the door, there’s a girl handing out sheets of paper.

“Role?”

“Excuse me,” Grantaire asks.

“Which role are you trying out for?”

Combeferre cuts in. “What’s available?”

The girl at the table sighs. “We have audition sides for Robin Goodfellow, Oberon, Demetrius, and Lysander. Oh, Theseus as well.”

“Great,” Combeferre says as he picks up a piece of paper labeled ROBIN. He leans over to Grantaire. “Take Theseus. He’s only in the beginning and the end.”

Grantaire does.

The girl hands them more papers and a couple of pencils. “Take these and fill out as much info on yourself as you can. Your schedule is important, as well as any dates you can’t make it to rehearsal. If you’re cast, this is what the director will agree to beforehand and will use to build the rehearsal calendar.”

“Thanks a lot,” Combeferre answers and leads Grantaire to a couple of empty chairs, where they sit down and begin to fill out their info sheets.

“This seems like a lot of work, Adrien,” Grantaire says.

“But fun as well, R. Just think of it… if you’re cast, you get to be a whole different person up on that stage than who you are in real life. Doesn’t that sound amazing?”

“I guess.”

Combeferre sighs. “Just promise me that you’ll at least try? Like a real, honest shot at it?”

“Adrien, to be honest, I’d rather have my wisdom teeth pulled like Valjean offered yesterday.”

Combeferre’s face sours. “Fine, then. I don’t even know why I bother with you sometimes, R.”

The two continue until a man walks on stage and quiets the audience. “Good evening, everyone. My name is Alex Mabeuf, the director of this production, and it pleases me to see such an amazing turnout for tonight’s auditions. We’ll be doing closed auditions this evening, so I will ask everyone to wait in the lobby. This will give you time to work on your audition piece. All of you should have received an audition side and a contact sheet from my assistant, Abigail. Once you’re ready, Abigail will have a sign-up sheet at the auditorium door. You’ll be called into the auditorium in the order that you’re on her list. Please have your contact sheet with you when you come in, as I’ll be making notes with it during your audition. Afterwards, you’re free to leave. Does anyone have any questions?”

A hand is raised on the other side of the auditorium. “What about callbacks?”

“I expect to have a callback list up by the morning,” Mabeuf answers.

Combeferre raises his hand. “How about those of us who live outside of town? How will we find out if we’re on the list?”

“Sally in the office here at Hadley will be available for questions when the office opens tomorrow morning. One thing I would like to stress to all of you is that you are not guaranteed a role if you are called back tomorrow, and you may get cast even if you are not called back. Are there any more questions?”

The hall stays silent.

“All right then, if you all will exit the auditorium, we’ll begin.”

Combeferre and Grantaire join the crowd and go back into the lobby. The two find a corner and Combeferre begins to work on his audition. Grantaire, instead, pulls out his notebook and starts again on his poetry assignment for Valjean. Grantaire finds himself so engrossed in his assignment, that he misses Combeferre put his name on the list and actually go in the auditorium to audition.

What Grantaire doesn’t miss, however, is a _voice_ rising up from the middle of the lobby. When he looks up, he sees something… beautiful.

A young man sitting on the floor cross-legged, his face framed by wavy blonde hair.

Dressed in black.

Reciting Shakespeare.

“Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell. It fell upon a little western flower; before, milk-white; now purple with love’s wound.”

The man looks up from his page and stares straight at Grantaire.

“Fetch me that flower, the herb I showed thee once. The juice of it, on sleeping eyelids laid, will make a man or woman madly dote upon the next live creature that it sees.”

Grantaire swallows reflexively.

“Fetch me this herb, and be thou here again, ere the Leviathan can swim a league.”

The two watch each other for a few more moments before the boy’s face softens. “Any good?”

Grantaire nods. “Very.”

“I still don’t know if Oberon’s the best fit. I picked up Demetrius as well…”

“No!” Grantaire blurts out. “That was… that was… incredible.”

“You think so?”

Grantaire nods again.

Another voice is heard among the crowd. “Enjolras? Julien Enjolras? You’re next!”

The boy stands. “That’s me. Thanks again…”

“René. René Grantaire. My friends call me R.”

Enjolras comes over to Grantaire and shakes his hand. “René… are you auditioning?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “No. Well, I was supposed to. I mean, my friend Adrien… he wants to play Puck. I just came to… I came because…”

“Moral support?”

Grantaire smiles slightly. “I guess that’s a good enough answer as any.”

“Well, you’re a good friend to come with him.” Enjolras nods toward Grantaire. "Are you both from the Academy?"

Grantaire is confused, until he remembers he's still wearing his school blazer. "Yes. We're both seniors at Musain."

"Do you like it there?"

"I guess. It's a lot of work, but there's Adrien and our other friends, Mr. Valjean, and this... group we have."

"Sounds... clandestine."

"It kind of is. None of the teachers would like it, except for Valjean. It was... sort of his idea."

Before Enjolras can ask another question, Combeferre joins them. “How’d it go?” Grantaire asks.

“Not sure. He didn’t seem moved either way.”

“He wouldn’t,” Enjolras says. “Mabeuf keeps his feelings pretty close to the chest during auditions. Doesn’t want to look like he’s playing favorites.”

“Good to know. Thanks.”

Enjolras nods. “If you’re finished, means they’re waiting for me.”

“Good luck, Julien,” Grantaire says as Enjolras makes his way to the auditorium door.

Enjolras turns. “You too, René.”

Combeferre watches the exchange with a raised eyebrow. “Who was that, R?”

“Julien Enjolras. I… helped him with his lines.”

“Friend of yours?”

“No, not really.”

“Well, if you haven’t changed your mind about not auditioning, we can head back to Musain.”

“Okay.”

Combeferre and Grantaire gather their things, then collect their bikes to ride back to the school.

\--

Combeferre doesn’t get a call back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PATRIA HAS ARRIVED. :)
> 
> Also, I do mention this fic occasionally on my Tumblr, along with other fandom-related shenanigans. I can be found at [keatsinqueue](http://keatsinqueue.tumblr.com), if anyone is interested. :)


	11. Scraps of Encouragement

Saturday afternoon finds Grantaire and the rest of his English class at the Musain soccer pitch, following Valjean as he carries his briefcase, an athletic bag full of soccer balls, and a large suitcase.

“Now, devotees may argue that one sport or game is inherently better than another. For me, sport is actually a chance for us to have other human beings push us to excel.”

Valjean sets down his luggage by the stands and opens his briefcase, pulls out his notebook, and walks back to his students. “I want you all to take a slip of paper and line up single file.”

The boys do as they’re directed as Valjean tears slips of paper out of his notebook, handing each student a single piece. Realizing he’s forgotten something, he hands the notebook to Jehan and goes back to the stands.

First up to the line is Feuilly. “You know what to do, Feuilly,” Valjean yells as he continues to work with the suitcase and Jehan places a ball in front of his friend.

“Oh to struggle against great odds. To meet enemies undaunted,” Feuilly says, slightly confused.

Valjean chuckles under his breath. “Sounds to me like you're daunted. Say it again like you're undaunted.”

Feuilly repeats himself, this time with a bit more gusto. “Oh to struggle against great odds! To meet enemies undaunted!”

“Now, go on!”

Feuilly kicks the ball out toward the middle of the pitch.

“Yes! Next!”

Another boy steps up to the line and kicks a ball. “To be a sailor of the world, bound for all ports.”

“Next, but louder!” Valjean shouts from the sidelines.

Another student, another ball. “Oh, I live to be the ruler of life, not a slave.”

Valjean finally finishes up with the suitcase, and music begins to play – not a suitcase, a _record player_.

“To mount the scaffolds. To advance to the muzzle of guns with perfect nonchalance.”

Grantaire recognizes the music as one of Handel’s _Water Music_ preludes.

Joly is up to the line next. “Listen to the music, Joly,” Valjean says.

“To dance, clap hands, exalt, shout, skip, roll on, float on.”

“Yes!” Valjean cheers.

Bahorel, unenthused, barely kicks the ball. “Oh, to have life henceforth the poem of new joys.”

“Boo! I expected more than that, Mr. Bahorel!”

When Valjean sees Courfeyrac is up next, he beams. “Come on, Lucas! Let it fill your soul!”

Courfeyrac does.

“To indeed be a god!”

Courfeyrac kicks the ball farther than anyone else that afternoon.

\--

When the boys return to the third floor of Corinth, Grantaire finds Combeferre sitting at his desk, still wearing his coat. “Adrien, where were you? Valjean just had us playing soccer and reciting poetry at the same time, and it was so weird but–“

“I didn’t get in,” Combeferre says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What?”

“I didn’t get into the play.”

Grantaire sits on the bed next to Combeferre. “I’m… I’m sorry, Adrien.”

Combeferre continues to stare at his typewriter. “I just thought… I thought I could really do it this time.”

“Hey, there’ll be other plays, Adrien. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

“I know. I just… I just _really_ wanted to do this. To show… to show everyone I can be more than just a straight A student, you know?”

“I know. Next time, okay?”

“Okay.”

Combeferre stands and goes to hang his coat in his wardrobe. “Your friend got in.”

“Huh?”

“Your friend, Julien. He was on the cast list.”

Grantaire can’t help but smile. “What role?”

“Oberon.”

“That’s… that’s really swell.”


	12. Uncle Walt

Sunday night comes and Grantaire doesn’t have a poem. At least, not one that’s fit for the public.

It’s evading him.

Combeferre is reading his assignment for Montparnasse on his bed, seemingly unaware of Grantaire’s plight.

Out of all his teachers this year, it’s Valjean he wants to do the best for, but this assignment… he doesn’t know what to do.

What to say.

He doesn’t know the words he thinks Valjean wants to hear.

Mr. Babet, the groundskeeper, plays his bagpipes out on the pier to sound the ending of the weekend.

Grantaire whole-heartedly believes it is sounding his imminent doom.

\--

“To Cosette.”

Courfeyrac, who was doodling in his notebook, looks up and smiles.

Marius is standing at the head of the class, a piece of paper in his hand. “I see a sweetness in her smile. Bright light shines from her eyes. But life is complete; contentment is mine, just knowing that...”

A light snicker rises from the classroom.

“Just knowing that… she's alive.”

Marius goes back to his desk, dejected. “I’m sorry, sir. It was a stupid poem.”

Valjean, who was standing against the classroom windows, walks back up to the currently empty dais. “It wasn’t stupid, Mr. Pontmercy, it was a good effort.”

When he sits back in his desk, Courfeyrac pats Marius on the back.

“Many poems are written out of a love for something… or someone, as the case may be. It’s a major theme not only for poetry, but for life.”

Valjean scans the room. “Mr. Bahorel, don’t think I didn’t see you chuckle at Marius’ expense. You’re up.”

Valjean returns to his perch as Bahorel steps up in front of the class and unfolds his own piece of paper. “The cat sat on the mat.”

The class all out laughs.

“Congratulations, Mr. Bahorel,” Valjean says. “Yours is the first poem to ever have a negative score on the Pritchard scale.”

The class may be laughing, but Bahorel stands tall as he returns to his desk.

“I don't mind that your poem had a simple theme,” Valjean continues. “Sometimes the most beautiful poetry can be about simple things, like a cat, or a flower, or rain. You see, poetry can come from anything with the stuff of revelation in it.”

Valjean walks up to Bahorel and clasps his shoulder. “Just don't let your poems be ordinary. Now, who's next?”

Grantaire sees Valjean walk toward him and knows his time has come. “Mr. Grantaire, I see you sitting there in agony. Come on; let’s put you out of your misery.”

Grantaire looks up at Valjean and bites the bullet. “I… I didn’t do it. I didn’t write a poem.”

Valjean’s expression doesn’t change, but Grantaire can hear the murmuring of his friends behind him. “Mr. Grantaire thinks that everything inside of him is worthless and embarrassing. Isn't that right, René? Isn't that your worst fear?”

Grantaire looks away, embarrassed.

“Well, I think you're wrong. I think you have something inside of you that is worth a great deal.”

Valjean goes up to the chalkboard and begins to write. “’I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world.’ Walt Whitman. Now, for those of you who don't know, a yawp is a loud cry or yell.”

Valjean turns away from the chalkboard, returns his gaze to Grantaire, and walks back. “Now, René, I would like you to give us a demonstration of a barbaric ‘yawp.’”

Grantaire doesn’t move and doesn’t think he could be more mortified than he is at that moment.

“Come on, you can't yawp sitting down. Let's go! Come on!”

Grantaire does as he’s told and comes to the front of the class next to Valjean, if only to see if this one concession will stop the entire fiasco.

“A yawp,” Grantaire asks.

“Not just a yawp, a _barbaric_ yawp,” Valjean replies.

After a moment, Grantaire complies. “Yawp,” Grantaire says, meekly.

“Come on. Louder, René.”

“Yawp,” Grantaire repeats.

“That’s a mouse. Come on… louder!”

Grantaire says it again, frustrated. “Yawp.”

“Yell like a man, René!”

He does. “ _YAWP!_ ”

Valjean’s face brightens. “There it is! You see, you do have a barbarian in you after all.”

Grantaire tries to return to his desk, but Valjean stops him. “Now, you don’t get away that easy.”

Valjean turns René away from the class and back toward the chalkboard, where above Valjean’s scrawl is a picture of Walt Whitman himself. “The picture of Uncle Walt up there, what does he remind you of? Don’t think, just answer.”

“A… a madman,” Grantaire answers.

Valjean starts to circle around Grantaire. “What kind of madman? Don’t think, René. Just answer again.”

Grantaire turns in place, staying focused on Valjean. “A… crazy madman.”

“You can do better than that! Free up your mind. Use your imagination! Say the first thing that pops into your head, even if it's total gibberish.”

“Uh… a sweaty-toothed madman.”

Valjean stops and moves back into Grantaire’s line of sight. “Good God, boy, there's a poet in you after all.”

Valjean moves and covers Grantaire’s eyes with his hand while grasping the back of his head, holding him in place. “There. Close your eyes, René. Now describe what you see.”

Grantaire closes his eyes, feeling the warmth of Valjean’s hands against the constant cold of the classroom. “I close my eyes.”

“Yes?”

“And… an image floats beside me.”

“A sweaty-toothed madman,” Valjean prompts.

Grantaire notices that they’re circling again. “A sweaty-toothed madman, with a stare that pounds my brain.”

Grantaire can hear the smile in Valjean’s voice. “Oh, that’s excellent. Now, give him action. Make him do something, René.”

“His… his hands. They reach out and choke me.”

“Wonderful.”

“And… and all the time he’s mumbling.”

Valjean stops them and backs off, lowering himself in front of Grantaire. “What’s he mumbling?”

“Mumbling… truth! Truth… like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold.”

Laughter comes from the class, which makes Grantaire look up and open his eyes.

_They’re laughing. I did something wrong._

Valjean waves them off and gets back into René’s space, motioning for him to close his eyes again. “Forget them, forget them! Stay with the blanket. Tell me about that blanket!”

Grantaire closed his eyes again and continues. “You push it, stretch it, it'll never be enough. You kick at it, beat it, it'll never cover any of us! From the moment we enter crying to the moment we leave dying, it will just cover your face as you wail and cry and scream.”

Grantaire opens his eyes. What he sees is Valjean kneeling in front of him, a hand to his chest.

He sees Combeferre, awe-struck.

He sees Courfeyrac in the back, his smile a mile wide.

And he’s smiling too. He’d never believe it if it wasn’t his own face, but he’s smiling. A full out grin shining out to his classmates.

Before he returns to his desk amidst the cheers and clapping, Valjean takes him by the back of the head and puts their foreheads together. “Don’t you dare forget this, René. Don’t you dare forget this.”


	13. Correspondence

When the boys return to Corinth Hall after dinner, Grantaire notices a letter in his and Combeferre’s mailbox. Pulling it out, he finds that it’s addressed to him, which is unusual.

Grantaire doesn’t receive letters, just his monthly allowance from his parents.

The address on the envelope, conspicuously missing the part about Corinth, is written in a tight cursive script with only a return address in the corner and no corresponding name.

Grantaire is utterly confused, but puts the letter in his book bag and takes it with him.

\--

Grantaire and Combeferre work together on their Trig homework when they get upstairs, shoring up each other’s work where needed. It’s not until Combeferre leaves to go shower that Grantaire remembers that there’s a letter waiting for him. Retrieving it, he opens it and begins to read:

_René,_

_I hope you don’t mind that I went ahead and wrote you. You mentioned that you went to school at Musain, and a letter is less upfront than calling the school office and asking to speak to a person I only met once briefly but memorably._

_I’m sure your friend has told you already that I made the cast, and I wanted to thank you for telling me to stay with Oberon when last we spoke. I’m looking forward to digging deeper into his character, and without your encouragement, it may not have happened._

_I would like to see if we could meet again so I may thank you in person. I know it might be difficult, considering what I’m sure are strict guidelines in regards to students leaving the school’s grounds, but if you would be willing to provide me a time and place, I’d be happy to meet you there under any circumstances._

_Sincerely,_

_Julien Enjolras_

To thank him? Personally? It’s not like he helped him all that much, Grantaire thought. He just nodded and said yes a bunch of times to a person who obviously didn’t need any help. With him just reading the lines off the piece of paper, Grantaire could feel the… _power_ behind the words Enjolras spoke.

And he believed him wholeheartedly.

He would have searched the entire earth for that one flower, had he really been the Puck to Enjolras’ Oberon.

It was like nothing he had ever heard before, and after what happened with Valjean that afternoon, he wants to hear that voice again.

And Enjolras did say _under any circumstances_ , so how can he refuse?

Grantaire pulled out a clean piece of paper:

_Julien,_

_I was very pleased when Adrien told me you’d been cast as Oberon_ —

Grantaire was at a loss as how to see Enjolras again. Visitors aren’t really allowed unless they’re family, and Enjolras was right – leaving campus is nearly impossible. He’s not even sure how he and Combeferre were able to leave on their own to get to the auditions in the first place.

Then, he has an idea.

The door opens, and Combeferre enters, drying off his hair with a towel. “Hey Adrien,” Grantaire asks. “When’s the next Les Amis meeting?”

“Saturday.”

“Same time as always?”

“Yeah, R. Why?”

“No reason, I just… forgot. Thanks.”

Combeferre eyes Grantaire. “No problem, R.”

As Combeferre gets ready for bed, Grantaire returns to the letter:

_The group I mentioned meets at the old Indian cave in the forest. We’ll be out there this Saturday, most likely in the late afternoon._

_If you can be there, so can I._

_-R_

Grantaire seals the letter in a blank envelope and writes Enjolras’ address in his messy scrawl on the front.

Before going to bed, he runs down to the first floor office and puts it in Corinth’s outgoing mail.

\--

Grantaire receives a postcard on Wednesday. There’s no return address, just three words:

_I’ll be there._

\--

Anticipating both the meeting and seeing Enjolras again makes the days go by faster for Grantaire. Before he can catch his breath, it’s Saturday and they are in the forest, making their way to the cave. Combeferre said he’ll be there later, and throughout their journey, Grantaire strains to see if Enjolras is somewhere, anywhere, really. The weather is already starting to change and the leaves are falling, leaving the forest half bare and half carpeted with dead leaves.

If Enjolras is around, he’s hiding himself well.

Once settled, the boys pull out of their stashes something that would never be allowed at Musain – pipes and pipe tobacco. Courfeyrac pulls out something a bit larger – an alto saxophone.

A few of the boys had never smoked before, and it shows when Feuilly sputters and coughs as he inhales the tobacco smoke.

Courfeyrac laughs. “Atta boy, Feuilly. Inhale. _Deeply_.”

Turning his attention from Feuilly, Courfeyrac notices that Marius has pipe in hand, but is not participating. “Marius, what’s wrong?”

“It’s Cosette,” Feuilly responds. “It’s _always_ about Cosette.”

The boys make googly eyes toward Marius. A few of them even sigh heavily and clutch their chests.

“That’s not funny,” Marius says.

Courfeyrac takes pity on Marius. “Guys, knock it off. Smoke your damn pipes.”

Without warning, Combeferre comes through the cave’s entrance, carrying what looks to be a lamp. “Friends, scholars, Musain men. Lend me your ears!”

“What the hell is that,” Joly exclaims.

“It’s a lamp, Joly,” Feuilly responds.

As Combeferre is removing the lamp shade, he reveals the base to be the statue of a man in an old Revolutionary War army uniform. “No, it’s the god of the cave.”

“The god of the cave,” Joly says, disbelievingly.

Before Combeferre has a chance to respond, a loud and a melodic squeaking resounds inside the cave. The boys look to see Courfeyrac playing his saxophone.

“Lucas, what are you doing,” Feuilly exclaims.

“Starting this meeting,” Courfeyrac responds.

Courfeyrac stands and clears his throat. “Gentlemen… ‘Poetrusic’ by Lucas Courfeyrac.”

He brings his sax up to his lips and blows out a garbled mess of notes, like something off a Charlie Parker album. “Laughing, crying, tumbling, mumbling. Gotta _do_ more. Gotta _be_ more.”

“Oh, no,” Joly says under his breath.

The saxophone warbling continues. “Chaos screaming, chaos dreaming. Gotta _do_ more! Gotta _be_ more!” Then, unexpectedly, the tune turns soft and melodic; almost like a lullaby, but darker in emotion.

Courfeyrac spins around the center of the cave as he plays, but stays right in Marius’ face toward the end. The last note seems to go on forever, but when it finally disappears, the boys begin to clap; amazed that Courfeyrac could create something that… _moving_. When he’s finished, Courfeyrac ruffles Marius’ hair before sitting back down.

“That was great.” Feuilly said. “Where did you learn to play like that?

“My parents made me take the clarinet for _years_ ,” Courfeyrac replied.

“I love the clarinet,” Bossuet adds.

“I hated it.”

The boys laugh at Bossuet, finding it particularly amusing that Bossuet and Courfeyrac are on opposite sides of an argument.

Again.

“The saxophone,” Courfeyrac continues. “The saxophone is more… _sonorous_ ,” Courfeyrac says with a grin.

“Ooh, _vocabulary_ ,” Joly says with a smirk in his voice.

Suddenly, Marius stands. “I can’t take it anymore! If I don’t have Cosette, I’ll kill myself!”

“Poncy,” Courfeyrac says. “You’ve gotta calm down.”

“No, Lucas! That's just my problem.”

A glint forms in Marius’ eyes. “I've been calm all my life. I'll do something about that.”

Marius goes to leave the cave before Combeferre stops him. “Where are you going?”

“What are you gonna do,” Courfeyrac adds.

Marius smiles. “I’m gonna _call_ her.”

Marius bolts out of the cave, and the rest of the boys follow him, Courfeyrac continuing his Charlie Parker impression as they do so. Grantaire is the last of them out of the cave and is about to sprint to catch up, but he hears a voice coming from the other direction. “René?”

Grantaire turns and looks up to see Enjolras standing on the ridge above the cave’s opening. “Julien! I thought I missed you.”

“You almost did,” Enjolras says as he walks down the ridge. “I lost my way, but I heard music and I followed it.”

When he was on level ground, Grantaire gestures to Enjolras to go inside the cave and follows behind him. Combeferre’s lamp stand stands silently toward the back, the light fixture now replaced with a candle.

“What do you all do here,” Enjolras asks as he sits down on a boulder.

Grantaire sits across from him. “We… we read poetry. We have a big anthology Mr. Valjean gave us that we use most of the time. Sometimes we share stuff we wrote ourselves. That music you heard? That was Lucas. Normally he’s never serious about anything, but today… today was different, somehow.”

“I’m sorry I missed it. Sounds like a lot of fun.”

“You like poetry?”

“I do.”

“Who’s your favorite?”

“Oh, I don’t have just one. I love classical poetry, like Homer’s _Iliad_ , Virgil’s _Aeneid_ , or Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_. I love the idea that those words lived for hundreds of years in the minds of storytellers before they were ever written down and translated. It’s like when I’m reading them that I’m connected, in some small way, to those long dead men sitting around a fire listening to Homer relaying the sacking of Troy or Odysseus’ reunion with Penelope.”

Grantaire sits in silence for a moment before responding. “I… only know those names from history class.”

Enjolras gives Grantaire a small smile. “That’s okay. Classical poetry isn’t for everyone.”

“I’d like to,” Grantaire starts. “Read them, I mean. Valjean would probably appreciate the extra effort.”

“Don’t do it for Valjean,” Enjolras replies. “Don’t even do it for me. Do it because _you_ want to, René. Enjoyment of something shouldn’t be started out of intimidation or trying to impress someone. It just turns into resentment that way.”

Grantaire nods, unsure about how to respond to Enjolras’ direct yet absolutely logical statement. The two stay quiet until Enjolras moves to sit next to Grantaire. “I still haven’t thanked you for your encouragement the last time we talked.”

“I didn’t really do anything, Julien.”

“Yes, you did. Acting is made up of moments of encouragements and choices that ultimately turn into a performance. You gave me encouragement, I made a choice. It’s as simple as that.”

Grantaire, who had been staring down at his hands since Enjolras sat next to him, looks up. “I… I’m glad I helped. Normally nothing I ever do turns out the way I’d like it to.”

“Now, I don’t think I can believe that,” Enjolras says with a slight lilt to his voice.

Grantaire remembers that Monday afternoon English class, and smiles to himself. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Don’t put yourself down, René. I’ve only spoken to you twice and I can already tell there’s a lot more to you than you think there is.”

“Really?”

Enjolras nods. “Really.”

Grantaire smiles wide. “Would you like to hear a story, Julien?”

“An original work?”

Grantaire nods again. “Better. It’s real life.”

Enjolras returns Grantaire’s smile. “I’d love to.”

Grantaire turns his whole body to face Enjolras. “So, last week, Valjean assigns all of us to write an original poem. I was scared out of my mind. I’ve never written anything but essays and reports, but this one thing happened in class that you’ll never believe…”


	14. Interlude 3 - The Invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4/16/13: Chapter 13 has been slightly modified since its original publication. Nothing that changes the story/plot, but the author believes it reads better and isn't as clunky as it once was.
> 
> Cheers.

A dial tone.

A click.

“Hello?”

Marius hangs up the receiver on the pay phone down in Corinth’s foyer without answering and turns to look at everyone, his face a vision of indecision. “She’s gonna hate me. The Lamarque’s are gonna hate me. My parents will kill me…”

The boys, by this time huddled behind Marius, stare back at him, encouragement written over all their faces. A few of them even wiggle their eyebrows.

“All right, god damn it. You’re right.” Marius puts in another dime and dials Cosette’s number. “‘Carpe diem’, even if it kills me.”

A dial tone.

A click.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Cosette?”

“Yes?”

“Hi. This is… Marius Pontmercy.”

“Oh, yes! Marius! I’m glad you called.”

Marius puts his hand over the receiver. “She’s glad I called,” he says to the rest.

“Okay, Charlie’s parents are going out of town this weekend, so he’s throwing a party. Would you like to come?”

Marius stands there speechless for a handful of moments. “Would I like to come to a party?”

“Say yes, dumbass!” Courfeyrac says in a harsh whisper.

“It’s on Friday,” Cosette continues.

“Sure, Friday’s good.”

“Around 7?”

Marius starts to grow a smile. “Great. I’ll be there, Cosette.”

“Okay.”

Marius gets so excited he starts to stumble over his words. “Friday night at the Lamarque’s at 7.”

Cosette giggles. “Okay, bye Marius.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you then. Bye.”

Marius hangs up the receiver and stares at the phone before letting loose a barbaric yawp. “Can you believe it? She was gonna call _me_.”

Marius looks straight at Courfeyrac. “She invited me to a party with her.”

“At Charlie Lamarque’s house,” Courfeyrac counters.

Marius nods.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“You don’t really think that means you’re going to the party with her.”

“Of course not, Lucas! That’s not the point! That’s not the point at all.”

“Then what is it?”

“The point, Lucas, is…” Marius trails off, than smiles.

“Yeah?” Courfeyrac asks.

“She was thinking about me. I’ve only met her once, and she’s already thinking about me.”

As Marius scans the group, they’re all smiles as well. “Damn it. It’s gonna happen, guys. I can _feel_ it.”

Marius breaks through the throng, then turns back to face them. “She is going to be _mine_.”


	15. Conformity In The Courtyard

The sun shines over one of Musain’s stone courtyards as Valjean faces his students; Feuilly, Bossuet, and Marius standing off to their side.

“Boys, there are no grades at stake today. Just take a stroll.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the three boys begin their walk, circling Valjean as he stands in their center. It’s not very long before their strides sync up and become more of a march than a leisurely stroll.

“There is it,” Valjean comments as the three boys continue their march. The other students find a way to participate as well, clapping in time to each strike of their friends’ oxfords against the stones.

Valjean joins the boys, like a general at their side. “Left! Left! Left-right-left,” he repeats as he makes one final revolution with them before calling out “Halt!”

Valjean smiles at the three as they stop and rejoin their classmates. “Thank you, gentleman. Now, if you noticed, Mr. Pontmercy, Mr. Bossuet, and Mr. Feuilly all started off with their own stride, their own pace.”

Valjean begins to walk around slowly. “Mr. Feuilly, taking his time, knowing he’d get there one day.”

A skittish walk. “Mr. Bossuet, you could see him thinking ‘Is this right? It might be right. Maybe, maybe not. I don’t know.’”

Then finally – “Mr. Pontmercy, driven by a deeper force.”

The class laughs, because it was all true, even Marius’ pelvic-driven stride.

“I didn't bring them up here to ridicule them,” Valjean starts. “I brought them up here to illustrate the point of conformity – the difficulty in maintaining your own beliefs in the face of others.”

Valjean points at everyone, and no one. “Now, I see the look in your eyes like, ‘I would've walked differently.’ Well, ask yourselves why you were clapping. We all have a great need for acceptance, but you must trust that your beliefs are unique and your own, even though others may think them odd or unpopular. Robert Frost said, ‘Two roads diverged in a wood and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.’"

Valjean walks backwards away from the class, opening up the courtyard in the process. “Now, I want you to find your own walk right now. Your own way of striding, pacing. Any direction. Anything you want. Whether it's proud, whether it's silly, anything.

Opening his arms, Valjean says, “Gentlemen, the courtyard is yours.”

There was no hesitation from any of the boys as they fan out into the courtyard, which could be considered a testament to Valjean’s relationship with his students. Some walk normally, some walk with their arms and legs akimbo, some take long strides –

Jehan skips.

Courfeyrac stands still, leaning against a colonnade pillar.

“Mr. Courfeyrac, will you be joining us,” Valjean asks.

Courfeyrac smiles. “Exercising my right not to walk, Mr. V.”

Valjean grins back. “Thank you, Mr. Courfeyrac. You just illustrated the point.”

\--

No one notices Headmaster Javert watching them from his office window.


	16. An Unexpected Present

Grantaire sits at the end of the pier, staring out into the near darkness, the lights from all of Musain’s buildings throwing out just enough illumination to keep Grantaire company.

Next to Grantaire is a still sealed desk set, his birthday present from his parents.

He doesn’t know what they were thinking, giving a newly minted 18-year old a… piece of furniture, considering he already has one – the one they gave him last year.

Same brand, same color, same _everything_.

Grantaire hears someone walking toward him. He turns to see, but can’t see their face for all the backlight coming from the school.

He does recognize the voice, however. “Hello, René.”

Grantaire’s eyes go wide. “Julien! What are you doing here? You can’t be here!”

“Then keep your voice down. No one will know the difference if you don’t call attention to yourself.”

Enjolras completes his journey and sits down next to Grantaire on the pier, letting his legs dangle off the edge. Grantaire turns back toward the river. “You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”

“To see you, of course.”

“And how would you have done that?”

“I have my ways.”

Grantaire snorts. “I don’t believe you.”

“You doubt my acting skills? I could have sauntered into the library and with only a few questions found out exactly where you were.”

“That sounds… plausible. Totally impossible, but plausible.”

“Then I guess it’s fortunate for me you were easy to find.”

The two boys are silent for a few moments, either of them unsure about what to say next until Enjolras spots the desk set. “What’s that?”

“It’s… it’s my birthday present.”

Grantaire is barely able to see Enjolras’ face light up. “Is today your birthday? Happy birthday, René!”

 “Thanks,” Grantaire replies with less enthusiasm than his companion.

“What did you get?”

Grantaire picks up the desk set and hands it to Enjolras. “My parents gave it to me.”

Enjolras handles the desk set carefully. “It’s very nice. Lots of… pieces to it.”

Grantaire sighs. “They gave me the same one last year.”

Enjolras’ face falls. “Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.”

“Perhaps they thought you needed another one?”

Grantaire scoffs. “Maybe they weren’t thinking about anything at all.”

Grantaire looks back over the water. “The funny thing about all this is... I didn’t even like it the first time.”

The two continue their amenable silence until Enjolras stands. “René, I think you’re underestimating the _value_ of this desk set.” He takes a closer look at it, peering through the thin plastic to look at the desk set’s pens, paper, and pen holders. “I mean, who would want a football, or a baseball—”

“Or a car,” Grantaire offers.

Enjolras nods. “Or a car, if they could have a desk set as _wonderful_ as this one. I mean, if I were ever going to buy a desk set twice, I would probably buy this one. Both times.”

Grantaire looks up at Enjolras and smiles.

“In fact,” Enjolras continues. “Its shape is… it's rather aerodynamic, isn't it?” He tosses it up lightly and catches it. “I can feel it. This desk set wants to _fly_.”

Enjolras offers a hand to Grantaire and helps him up before handing him back his present. “René? Behold the first unmanned flying desk set.”

Grantaire takes Enjolras’ cue and throws the desk set out over the water with all his might. The force of his throw opens up the plastic and the two of them hear several splashes as pens, pen holders, and letter openers sink under water. Only the leather writing pad remains to be seen, floating silently on the surface.

Grantaire laughs. “Oh, my!”

Enjolras wraps an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders, the two of them continuing to watch the last remnant of their escapade. “Well, I wouldn’t worry, René. You’ll get another one next year.”

Grantaire looks at Enjolras, and in that moment, wishes he could be like him so _badly_. He never would have done anything like this before meeting him, or even becoming an Ami. He would have just taken his gift and used it like a good son would have. But _this_ , disregarding what little effort his parents put into sending him a gift he had already received, and just _throwing it away_ , it was like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. This little bit of rebellion was…

Amazing.

Freeing.

_Electrifying._

Enjolras must have sensed the change in him as well, because Grantaire could see something shining behind his eyes as they continued to look at each other, now standing toe-to-toe with Enjolras’ arm still holding Grantaire in place.

The two stood breathing the same air, each breath coming quicker than the last. It wasn’t until Enjolras moved, touching their foreheads together, that he spoke. “I don’t want to do anything you’re uncomfortable with, René.”

Grantaire could almost suss out what Enjolras was hinting at, but he was still heady on his rebellious tirade and didn’t care. “I trust you, Julien. I’ll always trust you.”

A small smile escaped Enjolras’ lips. “I hoped you would say something like that.”

The next thing Grantaire knew, there was a warm pressure on his lips.

Enjolras was kissing him.

_Enjolras was kissing him._

Dumpy little Grantaire with his mess of dark curly hair. Unremarkable little Grantaire who has to work for everything.

Someone even his own parents didn’t care about.

But here was this living embodiment of perfection giving him attention that no one else ever had.

Attention he never thought possible.

_And he likes it._

Grantaire chases Enjolras’ lips after he pulls back, not wanting the moment to end. Enjolras smiles, kisses Grantaire’s forehead, and brings him in close. “Happy birthday, René.”

Back up the hill, Musain’s bell was ringing; a final warning to any student wandering around campus that doors would be locked soon, including the doors to the residence halls.

“I have to go,” Grantaire says hurriedly.

“I know. When can I see you again?”

“I don’t know… wait, I know! Come to the meeting this Friday.”

“Seriously? You want me there?”

“Yes! You said you liked poetry, and I know the rest of the Amis will get along with you like a house on fire. Please come, Julien. Please?”

“Okay, I will. For you, René.”

Grantaire smiles and kisses Enjolras quickly. “Thank you.” He’s about to run off before he turns back and crushes his lips to Enjolras’. The two embrace before Grantaire pulls back. “I mean it. Thank you. For… for _everything_.”

“You’re welcome, René. The feeling’s mutual.”

Grantaire runs back to Corinth, unconcerned that he might miss curfew, but thrilled beyond measure he has something he’s finally succeeding at on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 6/26/13: demonsonthemoon @tumblr wrote a poem inspired by this chapter: [Hunting Grounds](http://demonsonthemoon.tumblr.com/post/53662565144/hunting-grounds).
> 
> Thank you, dearie. It means so much to me that you would think this story worthy of fanwork.
> 
> Be sure to read her other poetry! Her work for the Paris Burning 'verse is AMAZING. :)


	17. Descent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the upcoming big blocks of text. Hate the translator, not the transcriber. ;)

Grantaire does not sleep soundly that night. His thoughts stray toward Enjolras.

He knows what they did on the pier would be considered wrong. He knows what would happen if anyone found out.

But, he knows what he feels. He can only speculate what Julien feels, considering Julien’s the one that kissed Grantaire first.

And he’s not going to give that up.

Not for his parents.

Not for his friends.

Not for anyone or anything.

\--

Friday night comes, and the Amis make their way to the Indian Cave – all except Marius, who’s on his way into New Rochelle for the party at the Lamarque’s, and Courfeyrac, who said he had something “important” to pick up.

When the boys reach the cave, there’s already a glow coming from the entrance. They peer in cautiously and see a figure sitting to the side of a small fire in the center of the cave.

Grantaire recognizes the figure as Enjolras.

“Julien,” Grantaire says as they enter the cave, his voice barely above a whisper.

Enjolras looks over and smiles. “You didn’t tell me a time, but I figured it would be after classes.”

“You’ve been here all afternoon?”

“It’s okay, René. I didn’t mind.”

Combeferre clears his throat. “R, what is he doing here?”

Grantaire looks at everyone nervously. “I… I invited him. He reads poetry too. Different stuff that Valjean hasn’t taught us. I thought he could share some with us.”

Enjolras stands and extends a hand. “Julien Enjolras. Pleased to meet you all.”

The boys introduce themselves and shake hands with Enjolras as they take their places among the rocks and boulders. Combeferre takes the candle out of the lamp stand and lights it using the fire Enjolras made.

When they’re all settled, Enjolras sitting next to Grantaire, Combeferre opens Valjean’s anthology. “I hereby open this meeting of the Les Amis des Poètes Morts with the traditional opening.”

The boys, save Enjolras, stand and repeat the quote from _Walden_ with gusto, more battle cry than incantation.

After they sit down again, Combeferre looks to Grantaire. “Any old business?”

Grantaire clears his throat and looks to his spiral notebook. “Um… Lucas said he was working on something new, but he’s obviously not here to share it. And, um… I… think that was it.”

“Good,” Combeferre says. “New business?”

Bahorel raises his hand. “I brought liquor. Can’t let Marius have all the fun this evening.”

A cheer rises from the group as Bahorel pulls a good sized flask from his pea coat and hands it to Feuilly, who takes a swig.

As the flask goes around, Combeferre begins again. “I would like to welcome to this meeting of the Les Amis, R’s friend Enjolras. This is our first guest reader, so be sure to give him the attention he’s due.”

Enjolras stands, holding in his hand a well worn hardcover. “Thank you. I had mentioned to René my preference for Classical poetry, so I thought I would share with you a selection from _The Iliad_ by Homer. There was so much to choose from, and Homer can be a bit long winded, but I think that this section will give you an understanding on why I enjoy it so much.”

Enjolras is quiet as he turns to the correct page. When he’s ready, he looks out over the book and starts: “And Patroclus charged with evil intention in on the Trojans. Three times he charged in with the force of the running war god, screaming a terrible cry, and three times he cut down nine men; but as for the fourth time he swept in, like something greater than human, there, Patroclus, the end of your life was shown forth, since Phoebus came against you there in the strong encounter dangerously, nor did Patroclus  see him as he moved through the battle, and shrouded in a deep mist came in against him and stood behind him, and struck his back and his broad shoulders with a flat stroke of the hand so that his eyes spun.”

Grantaire looked around the cave and saw that everyone was staring at Enjolras, transfixed.

“Phoebus Apollo now struck away from his head the helmet four-horned and hollow-eyed, and under the feet of the horses it rolled clattering, and the plumes above it were defiled by blood and dust. Before this time it had not been permitted to defile in the dust this great helmet crested in horse-hair; rather it guarded the head and the gracious brow of a godlike man, Achilles; but now Zeus gave it over to Hector to wear on his head, Hector whose own death was close to him. And in his hands was splintered all the huge, great, heavy, iron-shod, far-shadowing spear, and away from his shoulders dropped to the ground the shield with its shield sling and its tassels. The lord Apollo, son of Zeus, broke the corselet upon him.”

Grantaire closed his eyes and continued to listen. He knew that Enjolras was enjoying this, sharing this ancient tale around a fire.

_It’s just like Enjolras said the last time the two of them were here. He’s connecting us. Drawing us closer to a world long gone._

“Disaster caught his wits, and his shining body went nerveless. He stood stupidly, and from close behind his back a Dardanian man hit him between the shoulders with a sharp javelin: Euphorbos, son of Panthoos, who surpassed all men of his own age with the throwing spear, and in horsemanship and the speed of his feet. He had already brought down twenty men from their horses since first coming, with his chariot and his learning in warfare. He first hit you with a thrown spear, o rider Patroclus, nor broke you, but ran away again, snatching out the ash spear from your body, and lost himself in the crowd, not enduring to face Patroclus, naked as he was, in close combat.

“Now Patroclus, broken by the spear and the god’s blow, tried to shun death and shrink back into the swarm of his own companions. But Hector, when he saw high-hearted Patroclus trying to get away, saw how he was wounded with the sharp javelin, came close against him across the ranks, and with the spear stabbed him in the depth of the belly and drove the bronze clean through. He fell, thunderously, to the horror of all the Achaean people. As a lioness overpowers a weariless boar in wild combat as the two fight in their pride on the high places of a mountain over a little spring of water, both wanting to drink there, and the lion beats him down by force as he fights for his breath, so Hector, Priam’s son, with a close spear-stroke stripped the life from the fighting son of Menoitios, who had killed so many, and stood above him, and spoke aloud the winged words of triumph.”

Enjolras, who had been reading those ancient words in his normal voice, now changed his stature and a new voice all together different came out. “‘Patroclus, you thought perhaps of devastating our city, of stripping from the Trojan women the day of their liberty and dragging them off in ships to the beloved land of your fathers. Fool! When in front of them the running horses of Hector strained with their swift feet into the fighting, and I with my own spear am conspicuous among the fighting Trojans, I who beat from them the day of necessity. For you, here the vultures shall eat you. Wretch! Achilles, great as he was, could do nothing to help you. When he stayed behind, and you went, he must have said much to you: “Patroclus, lord of horses, see that you do not come back to me and the hollow ships, until you have torn in blood the tunic of manslaughtering Hector about his chest.” In some such manner he spoke to you, and persuaded the fool’s heart in you.’”

Enjolras’ voice changed again. “And now, dying, you answered him, o rider Patroclus: ‘Now is your time for big words, Hector. Yours is the victory given by Kronos’ son, Zeus, and Apollo, who have subdued me easily, since they themselves stripped the arms from my shoulders. Even though twenty such as you had come in against me, they would all have been broken beneath my spear, and have perished. No, deadly destiny, with the son of Leto, has killed me, and of men it was Euphorbos; you are only my third slayer. And put away in your heart this other thing that I tell you. You yourself are not one who shall live long, but now already death and powerful destiny are standing beside you, to go down under the hands of Aiakos’ great son, Achilles.’”

Enjolras grew quiet, and the Amis leaned forward to hear him. “He spoke, and as he spoke the end of death closed in upon him, and the soul fluttering free of his limbs went down into Death’s house mourning her destiny, leaving youth and manhood behind her.”

Everyone was silent as Enjolras sat down.

Because of the firelight, no one saw Grantaire take Enjolras’ hand and squeeze it.

“That was…” Jehan began. “That was… amazing.”

“You should read the rest,” Enjolras responds. “Achilles… doesn’t take the death of Patroclus well.”

“Does Achilles really kill Hector, like Patroclus said,” Bossuet asks.

“To say that would be to ruin the rest of the poem,” Enjolras says. “The death of Patroclus is two-thirds in. I should have shared something not so… revealing.”

“It was fine,” Grantaire said. “Amazing, even. Thank you for sharing.”

Enjolras is about to respond, when the boys hear laughter outside the cave.

High-pitched laughter.

“Oh my god, who else,” Bossuet exclaims.

Their suspicions are confirmed when Courfeyrac ushers in two girls into the already crowded cave. “Is this it,” one of the girls asks.

“Yeah, this is it,” Courfeyrac answers. “Go ahead, go on in. It’s my cave.”

“Your cave,” Feuilly scoffs.

The other girl, who’s wearing a bright red sweater, stands in front of Courfeyrac. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Joly responds.

Feuilly slams his head into the ceiling as he stands up.

“Hello,” the same girl says.

Courfeyrac turns to the Amis, his eyes bright. “Hi, you guys! Meet Musichetta and—”

The other girl stares Courfeyrac down. “Eponine.”

“Eponine,” Courfeyrac repeats. “Musichetta? Eponine? Meet the pledge class of the Les Amis des Poètes Morts.”

The boys wave at the girls awkwardly.

“Come on, guys! Make room,” Courfeyrac says. “It’s Friday night, let’s get on with the meeting.”

“You already missed the start of it, Lucas,” Combeferre adds. “Enjolras here just recited the death of Patroclus. It was… quite spectacular.”

Courfeyrac now spies Enjolras sitting next to Grantaire. “You don’t say?” He reaches over the fire to shake Enjolras’ hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Enjolras says as he takes Courfeyrac’s hand with a firm shake.

Courfeyrac stays standing. “Guys, I have an announcement to make. In keeping with the spirit of passionate experimentation of the Les Amis, I'm giving up the name Lucas Courfeyrac. From now on, call me _Nuwanda_.”

“Nuwanda,” Feuilly scoffs.

Courfeyrac ignores Feuilly and steals a tube of red lipstick from Musichetta’s hand. Before she has a chance to protest, he draws on his cheeks, like an Indian putting on war paint. “So, are we gonna continue with this meeting, or what?”

“Yeah,” Musichetta adds. “If you guys don’t have a meeting, how do we know if we wanna join?”

“Join,” Combeferre exclaims.

Leaning over to Eponine, Courfeyrac says, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”

Eponine smiles. “That’s really sweet.”

“I made that up, just for you.”

“You did?”

A collective eyeroll runs through the Amis. Grantaire tries not to outright laugh at Courfeyrac’s antics, and he succeeds by grinning in Enjolras’ direction.

_At least with Courfeyrac playing the flirt, it takes the attention off Enjolras._

Enjolras returns the smile and takes Grantaire’s hand.

“I have one for you as well,” Courfeyrac continues, leaning over to place his head on Musichetta’s shoulder. “She walks in beauty like the night. Of cloudless climes and starry skies. All that's best, dark and bright, meet in her aspect and her eyes.”

“That’s beautiful,” Musichetta says.

“There’s plenty more where that came from,” Courfeyrac replies.

“Byron,” Bahorel coughs.

Courfeyrac waves Bahorel off, glaring at him in the process.

“Don't you guys miss having girls around here,” Musichetta asks.

“Yeah,” Feuilly and Joly respond in tandem.

“That's part of what this club is about,” Courfeyrac says. “In fact, I'd like to announce I published an article in the school paper, in the name of the Les Amis.”

“What,” Bossuet exclaims.

“Demanding girls be admitted to Musain.”

“You didn't,” Feuilly says, shocked.

“How did you do that,” Combeferre asks.

Courfeyrac beams. “I'm one of the proofers. I slipped the article in.”

“Well, it’s over now,” Joly says with a heavy sigh.

“Why? Nobody knows who we are,” Courfeyrac says, indignant.

“Well, don't you think they're gonna figure out who wrote it,” Bossuet says, his voice barely below a screech. “They're gonna come to you and ask to know what the Les Amis are. Lucas, you had no right to do something like that.”

“It's Nuwanda, Bossuet.”

“That's right, it's Nuwanda,” Musichetta adds, completely clueless to the scene going on around her.

Courfeyrac stands. “Are we just playing around out here, or do we mean what we say? If all we do is come together and read a bunch of poems to each other, what the hell are we doing?”

“Lucas,” Enjolras says, standing up to look at Courfeyrac as he does so. “As much as I appreciate the strides that you’re taking, you are not the lone voice of this assembly. I don’t know the origins of your group, but I can tell by your friends’ reaction that these meetings are not for public knowledge, and you’ve broken that unspoken agreement. René took a risk by inviting me, but I accepted the invitation and participated in it in the spirit in which it was given. You should have respected your friends more by asking their opinion instead of going off on your own agenda.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes turn cold. “Hey, would you not worry your precious little neck about it? If they catch me, I'll tell them I made it up.”

Courfeyrac turns to Musichetta and Eponine. “Come on, let’s go. There’s no romance here anymore.”

As the three of them leave, the Amis turn to Enjolras. “I think you just became our first honorary member,” Combeferre says.

“I accept the membership whole-heartedly,” Enjolras says with a smile. “But I think it’s best if all of you get back to Musain. If what you think is going to happen does happen, you shouldn’t give your teachers any reason to distrust you.”

Combeferre nods. “Agreed. Come on guys, we better go.”

As the Amis gather their things, Grantaire stops. “I’ll be right behind you. I just need to talk to Julien for a moment.”

“Don’t be too long,” Joly offers.

“I won’t.”

It’s not long before Grantaire and Enjolras are the only two left in the cave. “I’m sorry all this had to happen tonight,” Grantaire says.

“Don’t be, René,” Enjolras replies, taking Grantaire’s hands in his own. “You had no idea all hell was going to break loose.”

“You were amazing, though. You really were.”

Enjolras smiles. “Thank you. It was a lot of fun.”

Enjolras lets go of Grantaire and runs his hands through Grantaire’s curls. “I missed you.”

“Oh god, me too.”

“Are you okay? With… all of this? I mean, I didn’t really give you a lot of warning.”

Grantaire nods. “I don’t care. You’re stuck with me, Julien. You’ve been stuck with me since we first saw each other back at Hadley.”

Enjolras kisses Grantaire, a smile on his lips. “You’re stuck with me too, René.”

“Glad to hear it.”

The two continue to kiss, Enjolras experienced, whereas Grantaire was making up for his lack of experience with full-throttle enthusiasm. It’s not long before the two have to break apart just to breathe.

“You should go,” Enjolras says.

“I don’t want to.”

“You _need_ to. If you get in trouble, then how long will it be before we can see each other again?”

Grantaire sighs. “You’re right.”

Grantaire holds on to Enjolras, tucking his head under Enjolras’ chin. “Write me?”

“Absolutely.”

“We’ll make this work.”

“Of course we will.”

“I… I love you, Julien.”

Enjolras sighs. “I love you too, René.”

Enjolras pulls away from Grantaire. “Now go.”

Grantaire grabs his coat and runs off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excerpts of The Iliad taken from the Richmond Lattimore translation, which I highly recommend, if you ever try your hand at Homer. Proper names were "modernized" for the sake of layman understanding.


	18. Interlude 4 - Carpe Diem

Marius arrives at the Lamarque’s and knocks on the door.

No answer.

He tries the door and finds it unlocked, so he opens it and pokes his head through the crack.

“Hello? Hello, Cosette?”

He doesn’t see anyone, but he does hear loud music coming from the basement. Stopping to check his hair in a mirror, he sees Cosette come around the corner from the kitchen.

“Marius!”

“Hi,” Marius replies with a bit too much enthusiasm.

“You made it! Did you bring anyone with you?”

Marius’ smile falters. “No, I—”

“That’s all right. Caroline Lamarque’s here and she’s really nice. You’ll like her.”

Cosette’s smile shines a bit brighter. “I need to go find Charlie. Why don’t you head downstairs with everyone else?” Instead of going downstairs, Cosette goes up the stairs. “Make yourself at home, Marius.”

Marius watches as Cosette walks out of views, sighs, then goes downstairs, like Cosette told him to.

\--

“Hey, are you Brute Brujon’s brother?”

A stocky football player calls out to Marius, who’s now in the kitchen looking to refill his mug from the keg.

Upstairs.

Away from Cosette and Charlie.

“Hey, Denis! This guy look like Brute to you or what?”

Another large football player stands next to Marius, obviously drunk. “You’re Brute’s brother?”

Marius shakes his head. “No relation, guys. Never heard of him.”

Denis, too drunk to care, ignores Marius. “Where’s your manners, Franck? Brute Brujon’s brother and we don’t even offer him a drink.” Denis hands Marius another cup and fills it from a fifth of Jack Daniels.

“Hey guys, thank for the offer, but I don’t really drink this—”

Franck raises his glass. “To Brute.”

Denis raises his glass. “To Brute.”

Marius sighs, then raises his glass. “To Brute.”

They drink.

Marius sputters and sounds like he’s going to die.

Denis slaps Marius on the back. “So how the hell is ol’ Brute, anyway?”

So does Franck. “Yeah! What’s ol’ Brute been up to, huh?”

“I really don’t know,” Marius says, still reeling from that first shot of Jack.

Another toast.

“To Brute Brujon.”

“To Brute Brujon.”

Marius acquiesces.

“To Brute Brujon.”

Marius is never going to get used to the taste of Jack Daniels.

\--

Marius wants to kill himself.

The combination of beer and those shots of Jack are really doing a number on his insides and he doesn’t like it.

He doesn’t like it at all.

Stumbling around the Lamarque’s basement, he goes by Charlie and his football cronies and tries to steer clear of the couples strewn about, obviously focusing on each other and not a drunken high school kid who feels like his insides are trying to become his outsides.

Finding an empty cushion on the sofa, Marius slumps into it, only to be jostled by another couple falling over the arm of the couch. As he moves to stand, he looks over to see Cosette asleep on the sofa next to him.

“Oh, God,” Marius says to himself.

Looking around to see if Charlie’s noticed him, Marius turns back to Cosette. Even if he wasn’t drunk, he would still think Cosette was the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on. Her face, softened due to sleep, is angelic.

Finishing off his beer, he sets the mug aside before lightly running his fingers over Cosette’s blonde hair.

It’s then and there that he makes a decision.

“Carpe diem,” Marius says to himself before leaning over and kissing Cosette on the forehead. Cosette’s eyes flutter open and before Marius has a chance to explain himself, he’s being forcefully hauled up from the sofa and into the face of Charlie Lamarque.

“What the hell are you doing,” Charlie yells.

Marius’ eyes grow wide. “Charlie, I know this looks bad, but you’ve gotta—”

Marius isn’t able to finish because Charlie throws him to the floor and straddles him, punching him relentlessly. All Marius can do is throw up his arms in a desperate attempt to protect himself.

“Charlie, stop! You’ll hurt him,” Marius hears Cosette say. “Stop it! Leave him alone!”

“God damn bastard,” Charlie says, continuing his assault.

The blows finally stop, and Marius can see that Cosette has pulled Charlie off of him. He feels his face, and finds that his nose is bloody. He sees a hand and takes it and finds that Cosette is helping him up.

“Marius, are you all right,” Cosette asks.

“Cosette, get the hell away from him,” Charlie says.

“Charlie, you hurt him,” Cosette replies, her face set and determined.

“Good! He should know better.”

“I’m sorry, Cosette,” Marius says, holding his nose. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Cosette says, a reassuring smile on her face. “It’s—it’s okay.”

Before Marius can say anything else to Cosette, Charlie hauls her back and gets in Marius’ face.

“The next time I see you, you die.”

Marius blanches back, but is able to get up the stairs and out of the house.


	19. Sound Effects

Grantaire sees it coming when the entire school is called to the Meeting Hall after classes are done for the day. All the boys stand when Headmaster Javert and the faculty enter the hall, and none of the adults look happy.

When the teachers are seated on the dais, Javert takes his place behind the podium and motions for the boys to sit. “In this week of Musain Might, there appeared a profane and unauthorized article. Rather than spend my valuable time ferreting out the guilty persons, and let me assure you I will find them, I'm asking any and all students who know anything about this article to make themselves known, here and now.”

The hall is as quiet as a graveyard.

“Whoever the guilty persons are, this is your only chance to avoid expulsion from this school,” Javert warns.

Bossuet gets fidgety, and Grantaire is worried that he’s gonna spill the beans. Before he has a chance to speak, a phone begins to ring. Javert and the faculty look around, clueless as to the source of the noise.

“Musain Academy, hello?”

Grantaire looks behind him, and he’s not surprised to see Courfeyrac with a phone receiver to his ear.

How he got it to ring inside the hall, he has no idea.

“Yes, yes he is,” Courfeyrac continues. “Just one moment.”

Courfeyrac stands and extends the receiver toward Javert.

“Mr. Javert, it’s for you! It’s God. He says we should have girls at Musain.”

The boys laugh.

The Amis grown.

Javert stares Courfeyrac down with an intensity Grantaire has never seen.

\--

Once Courfeyrac outs himself as the article writer, he’s taken to Javert’s office and the schoolboys are released to their own devices. The Amis return to Corinth to wait for Courfeyrac’s return. They’re in the hallway when Courfeyrac walks past Jehan with a gait that screams _corporal punishment_. He takes the walk of shame in silence, until Combeferre stops him at his door.

“You kicked out?”

“No,” Courfeyrac replies.

“So what happened?”

Courfeyrac leans against the door jamb and sighs, facing away from the Amis toward the inside of his room. “I’m to turn everybody in, apologize to the school, and all will be forgiven.”

“So, what are you gonna do?”

Courfeyrac doesn’t answer. Instead, he goes inside.

“Lucas!”

Courfeyrac turns. “Damn it, Adrien. The name is Nuwanda.”

Courfeyrac closes the door on Combeferre, a smirk alive and well on his face.

\--

There’s a crowd in the third floor common room.

Courfeyrac is holding court, the boys sitting all around him, a set of bongos in his lap and wearing a pair of dark-tinted sunglasses.

“Creeeak.”

Courfeyrac slaps a bongo.

“He started walking around toward my left. Creeeak.”

Another bongo slap.

“Creeeak.”

Slap.

“Assume the position, Mr. Courfeyrac—“

Before Courfeyrac can continue, the door opens and Valjean walks in. A few of the boys stand.

One of them tries to hide a contraband cigarette.

“It's all right, gentlemen,” Valjean says as he waves the boys back into their chairs.

Courfeyrac grins. “Mr. Valjean!”

“Mr. Courfeyrac,” Vajlean says. “That was a pretty lame stunt you pulled today.”

Courfeyrac is taken aback. “You're siding with Mr. Javert? What about _carpe diem_ and sucking all the marrow out of life and all that?”

“Sucking the marrow out of life doesn't mean choking on the bone, Lucas. There's a time for daring, and there's a time for caution. A wise man understands which is called for.

Valjean’s speech takes the wind out of Courfeyrac’s sails. “But I thought you'd like that.”

Valjean shakes his head. “No. You being expelled from school is not daring to me. It's stupid, 'cause you'll miss some golden opportunities.”

“Yeah, like what?”

Valjean leans in. “Like, if nothing else, the opportunity to attend my classes.”

Courfeyrac smirks.

“Got it, Ace?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep your head about you, Lucas.” Valjean straightens up. “That goes for the lot of you.”

The boys nod. “Yes, Sir.”

As Valjean goes to leave, he turns back. “Phone call from God… if it had been collect, it would have been daring.”

The boys laugh and turn back to Courfeyrac as Valjean exits.


	20. Excursion

“You should come to today’s rehearsal.”

It’s the middle of the night, and Grantaire is down in the lobby on the pay phone, one ear focused on Enjolras, the other listening out for Thenardier, Montreuil, and Montfermeil.

“And spoil the show for myself? You can’t be serious, Julien.”

“I am serious. I miss you, René. I want to see you, but I can’t get away from rehearsal, which means you need to come to me.”

“How do you expect me to do that?”

“The same way you Musain boys get into New Rochelle when you need to.”

“By bicycle.”

“By bicycle.”

“Will I get in trouble for disturbing you all?”

“No. I’ll let Alex know you’re coming.”

 “I’ll have to be back before the bell.”

“It’s an afternoon rehearsal .You’ll be back before the bell, I swear.”

 “Fine,” Grantaire sighs. “You forced me into it. I’ll be there.”

“Good. Now, go to sleep, René.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Pleasant dreams.”

“The same to you.”

Grantaire hangs up the receiver and creeps back up the stairs to his room, the smile on his face nearly as bright as the moonlight coming through the stairwell windows.

\--

Grantaire grabs his bicycle and pea coat as soon as classes are finished and begins his journey into New Rochelle. The ride is brisk, and he goes as fast as he can until he rides up to the heavy wooden doors of Hadley Hall. Once inside, he can hear rehearsal taking place and enters the auditorium as quietly as he can as he blows into his hands to warm them.

He sees Mabeuf sitting in the middle of the auditorium, taking notes as the actors perform on stage. The stage itself is set up to look like a forest with painted trees, vines made from strips of fabric, and small movable hills.

Mabeuf turns, sees him, and then waves him over. Grantaire goes and sits next to him, doing his best not to interrupt. He then turns his attention to the stage where he sees two people speaking to each other:

“Do I entice you,” the actor says to the actress with him. “Do I speak you fair? Or rather do I not in plainest truth tell you I do not, nor I cannot love you?”

“And even for that do I love you the more,” the actress responds. “I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius, the more you beat me, I will fawn on you. Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me, neglect me, lose me; only give me leave, unworthy as I am, to follow you. What worser place can I beg in your love – and yet a place of high respect with me – than to be used as you use your dog?”

As the two playing Demetrius and who Grantaire believes is Helena, he sees Enjolras and another fellow hiding behind a few of the set pieces.

But it’s not Enjolras, it’s Oberon.

Grantaire knows how Enjolras carries himself, the way he focuses in, and even hiding behind that two-dimensional tree, his bearing is completely different. Enjolras can be serious when he wants to be, playful even, like on the dock, but the only word that comes to mind as Enjolras and his companion return to center stage is… _regal._

“I know a bank where the wild time blows,” Enjolras begins. “Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, with sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine.”

Enjolras continues, but Grantaire knows when Enjolras sees him.

It doesn’t faze the fairy king.

“Take thou some of it,” Enjolras says as he takes a single flower from his partner’s hands. “And seek through this grove: a sweet Athenian lady is in love with a disdainful youth; anoint his eyes; but do it when the next thing he espies may be the lady. Thou shalt know the man by the Athenian garments he hath on. Effect it with some care, that he may prove more fond on her than she upon her love: and look thou meet me here ere the first cock crow.”

“Fear not, my lord, your servant shall do so,” Puck responds, then the two exit.

“All right everyone, we’ve been working a long time. Let’s take a bit of a break,” Mabeuf calls out. “Abigail? Have them back in 15 minutes.”

A disembodied voice comes from above. “You heard Alex. 15 minutes everyone.”

A muffled “thank you 15” comes from behind the stage as actors and actresses file out and around the auditorium.

Mabeuf looks over at Grantaire. “You’re René, right?”

Grantaire nods.

“You’re a friend of Julien’s?”

Grantaire nods. “I am. We actually met at auditions for this production.”

“Very nice,” Mabeuf says. “I will say one thing, he talks about you.”

Grantaire is shocked. “Really?”

“Really. He doesn’t really discuss his personal life; it’s all about the work to him when he’s here, but for the past few days, your name keeps being mentioned. I can’t seem to stop him.”

Grantaire sees Enjolras jump off the stage and make his way toward the two of them.

“I hope he’s not too distracted.”

“To anyone else, they wouldn’t see, but I’ve directed him enough times to know when his focus is… elsewhere.”

Grantaire is mortified. “I’m so sorry. I would never have thought—”

Mabeuf smiles. “It’s all right. I’m glad that Julien has a friend. Someone he cares about more than the work—”

Grantaire wishes he could go on, but Enjolras sits down next to him. “How was it, Alex?”

“You know I don’t give out notes until the end of rehearsal, Julien. Besides, you have company.”

Enjolras clasps Grantaire’s shoulder. “I do. Thanks for coming down, René.”

“Any time.”

“Come on, I want you to meet everyone.”

Enjolras gently pulls Grantaire out of his seat and back toward the stage, where a few other actors are standing, including the two that were just on stage.

“Rene, I’d like you to meet Sally, Joseph, Dominic, and Loretta.”

Each name garners a smile or a small wave from its owner.

“Everyone, this is René. He goes to school out at Musain.”

Grantaire, suddenly shy, nods a hello to the players standing in front of him. “You guys… you were really great just now.”

Sally and Dominic, the troupe’s Helena and Demetrius, smile in tandem. “Thank you,” Sally says. “We’ve been working really hard on it.”

“It shows. I’m excited to see the whole performance.”

 “We’ve been rehearsing all day and have only got through the first act,” Joseph adds. “Alex keeps fine tuning things. I’m sure you’ll hear something about that last scene when we get back.”

“I’m sure we will,” Enjolras says. “I’ll catch up with you guys in a few. I want to show René around Hadley.”

“Sure thing Jules,” Loretta says. “Nice to meet you, René.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire replies. “The same to you. All of you.”

Enjolras leads Grantaire up onto the stage and faces him out toward the auditorium. Grantaire watches as the cast mill about, some going up to Alex to ask questions, some sitting off to themselves mumbling lines under their breath, but mostly Grantaire takes in the expanse of red velvet chairs.

“What do you think,” Enjolras says as he stands behind Grantaire.

“It’s beautiful,” Grantaire replies.

“It’s even better when it’s a full house.”

Enjolras moves back and Grantaire follows him behind the scenery. They pass through the muslin vines and go out through a small door on the left side of the stage. Enjolras pushes through other actors as he maneuvers them through Hadley’s small back hallways and finally stops in front of a room barely larger than a broom closet.

But the door has Enjolras’ name on it.

“My dressing room,” Enjolras says as he closes the door behind Grantaire.

A quick look around it all it takes Grantaire to see how lived in this small room is. From the books on the shelves to the posters on the wall to the pictures attached to the vanity mirror, all these little pieces of Enjolras make Grantaire smile.

Leaning in closer to the mirror, one of the pictures that catches Grantaire’s eye is one of a young Enjolras and two adults standing on either side of him in front of a two-story home. The edges of the picture are well worn and yellowed.

“Those are my parents, Louis and Jeanne.”

Grantaire reaches out and touches the picture lightly. “They seem lovely.”

“They were, then.”

“What happened?”

“I didn’t take up the family business. Father is a US Senator. He would have rather me study the law and politics than Shakespeare and Moliere.”

“You don’t find value in that field?”

“Oh, I do. You can’t affect change without intimately knowing the faults behind it, but I could not allow one man to dictate my life based on what he had planned. He made his decisions for his life, and I have the right to make mine.”

“And your mother?”

“I have a post office box that she can write to and Father is in Washington enough that I can write to her without retaliation.”

“You can’t go home and see her?”

“Not without endangering her. I might have been able to come back home, but not only did I reject my father’s profession, I also rejected what was expected of me: to get married, raise a family, and be an upstanding member of society in his eyes. What makes me who I am, what makes me love you; Father would never let that under his roof and said so the night he threw me out.”

Grantaire embraces Enjolras. “I’m so sorry, Julien.”

Enjolras wraps his arms around Grantaire, one hand finding its way into Grantaire’s hair. “It’s all right, René. Alex is a distant cousin of Mother and took me in when I had no place to go. I have him, this place, my work, and now you.”

Enjolras pulls back and smiles at Grantaire. “You really have no idea how special you are to me.”

Enjolras leans back in and kisses Grantaire, and Grantaire returns the kiss back.

But it doesn’t stop there.

Gentle kisses soon become heated. A simple embrace to impart comfort becomes a desperate need to touch skin. The two boys fumble with their shirts and Grantaire’s tie and remove them, leaving them naked from the waist up.

It’s not enough.

Grantaire reaches out and touches Enjolras’ smooth, pale chest. For some reason, he expected it to be cold, like the marble it looks like, but underneath his palm he can feel warmth and the quick staccato of Enjolras’ heartbeat.

When he looks up, the look in Enjolras’ eyes warms Grantaire to the core.

Enjolras moves to work on Grantaire’s belt, but stops before he opens up the fly of Grantaire’s slacks. “I’ll stop this, René. You just say the word.”

“You don’t have to keep asking, Julien,” Grantaire answers, flushed. “I don’t think I would have let you remove my tie if I wasn’t on board.”

Enjolras smiles, kisses Grantaire quickly, then opens Grantaire’s pants and slips his hand inside Grantaire’s briefs.

Grantaire is utterly unprepared for the sensation of Enjolras’ hand around his cock. He lets out a small whimper as the softness of Enjolras’ hands and the unexpected twists and caresses of his fingers set Grantaire’s nerves ablaze. He forgets himself for a moment before remembering to reciprocate, sliding down the elastic of Enjolras’ sweatpants enough to get to his own target.

It’s awkward on the side of painful, but it’s still beautiful and nothing that Grantaire has ever experienced before.

Enjolras peppers Grantaire’s jaw and ear with kisses as he fights to keep back his own sighs. “René, oh. Oh god, don’t stop. _Please_.”

Grantaire really doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’ll continue to do it forever if it makes Enjolras sound like that.

Grantaire wants to last longer, but he can’t help himself as he cries wordlessly and spends into Enjolras’ hand, but he does his best to keep up his own awkward rhythm for Enjolras, whose head is thrown back and eyes are closed, lost to the world.

“I’m, I’m gonna. Oh god, René, I’m gonna…” Enjolras doesn’t finish as Grantaire feels a warm wetness spread under his hand and Enjolras reaches beyond Grantaire to place a hand on one of the walls to brace himself. This leaves Grantaire trapped between the wall and Enjolras, which Grantaire doesn’t mind in the slightest.

 Grantaire and Enjolras breathe in the same space until Enjolras focuses back on Grantaire. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Grantaire responds.

“So, that happened.”

Grantaire nods.

A mischievous grin crosses Enjolras’ face. “I promise I’ll be better next time.”

A knock on the door makes both of them jump. “Jules! Alex wants you on stage! We’re moving on to scene two!”

“I’m on my way, Abigail,” Enjolras says, searching for something to clean him and Grantaire off. He finds a box of tissues on a shelf above his vanity and hands a couple to Grantaire. After disposing of them, they put themselves back together, Enjolras tying Grantaire’s tie around his neck.

“Stay for the rest of rehearsal?”

Grantaire looks himself over and judges himself good enough for public scrutiny. “Absolutely. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Enjolras takes Grantaire’s face in both hands and kisses him fiercely. “Fantastic. Come on, let’s go.”

Grantaire follows Enjolras, hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm away for two weeks, and I reward your patience with mutual handjobs. Please accept this as my apology for keeping you gentle readers waiting. :)


	21. Exploration

Enjolras’ revelation about his family causes Grantaire to think about his own parents. As removed as they are from his life, he knows that they would be as disapproving of his relationship with Enjolras as Enjolras’ own family was when he told them about his… proclivities. Gavroche may be their favorite, but René is still expected to graduate, go to college, become a lawyer like his father and brother, get married – all the things that a person in his station should do.

Enjolras is only a few years older than René, but he’s already had to mature so much, having been abandoned by his family because he refused to conform to their expectations. To Grantaire, he seems to be the living embodiment of what Valjean has been trying to teach them: that there is more to life than the end goal, that the journey and how you travel that road is as important as the finish. Enjolras could have done as his father planned for him and become invested in law and politics, and with the passion that Grantaire has seen from Enjolras he could have moved throngs and converted so many to whatever cause he put his mind to. Instead, he decided to put his talent into the arts and move people through theatre and a heartfelt performance instead of speeches and rallies.

Not to mention coming out to his family as a homosexual.

It’s inspiring and makes Grantaire love Enjolras all the more, but if word got back to his parents about what they were doing, it would be disastrous, but he doesn’t know how long their relationship can stay secret.

As much as he trusts his friends, he doesn’t think they would have the answers he’s looking for, so after dinner, Grantaire goes to find the one adult he thinks would understand – Mr. Valjean.

He goes to Valjean’s office in Digne Hall and finds the light on. After knocking on the door, he hears Valjean beckon him in. Entering the office, he sees Valjean at his desk writing a letter and the sounds of classical music coming from the hi-fi. “René, what’s up?”

“Can I speak to you for a minute?”

“Certainly, have a seat.”

Grantaire looks for a chair, but they’re all covered in books. He picks up a stack to move them, which Valjean takes from him and transfers to another pile. “I’m sorry, René. Would you like some tea?”

Grantaire nods, so Valjean turns and begins to prepare two cups of tea from his tea service. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Sugar, please.”

Grantaire looks around the room, which is filled with papers, bookshelves, a small hi-fi system, and a few prints hanging on the walls. “They don’t give you a lot of room to work, do they?”

“Monastic oath,” Valjean says, a tinge of sarcasm in his voice. “No worldly things to distract me from my teaching.”

Grantaire hears the plop of a sugar cube before Valjean turns back and hands a teacup to Grantaire. When they sit, Grantaire sees that there’s a picture on Valjean’s desk amidst all the papers and books. It’s of a woman sitting with a cello, smiling at the camera. “She’s pretty.”

Valjean touches the frame. “Fantine, my fiancé. She’s back in Paris. Makes communication a little difficult.”

Grantaire hears the longing in Valjean’s voice and just… snaps. “How can you stand it?”

“Stand what, René?”

“You can go anywhere. You could be back in Paris with her. How can you stand being _here_?”

“I’m here because I love teaching. I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

Valjean takes a sip of his tea, then looks at Grantaire closely. “What’s the matter?”

Grantaire doesn’t know where to start, there’s just so much. “I met someone. Someone special.”

Valjean smiles.

Grantaire relays to Valjean everything about Enjolras; from meeting him during auditions, to their correspondence, to his most recent appearance with the Amis.

“He’s everything you want us to be: free thinkers, more than our parents’ expectations, our own person. He’s… he’s everything to me, Mr. Valjean, and I believe he feels the same way.”

Valjean’s face takes on a serious look. “René, are you saying what I think you’re saying…”

Grantaire nods.

Valjean is silent for a moment. “Firstly, I want to thank you that you feel comfortable enough with me to share this. This is an important decision for anyone to make, and considering your age, it’s also part and parcel of discovering yourself as a person. Please know that I don’t think of you any differently because of what you just told me and it will stay between us until you say otherwise.”

A small smile crosses Grantaire’s face.

“Now, are you sure you can’t say anything about this to your parents?”

“Yes, absolutely. When they do decide to talk to me, it’s only about what universities to apply to, how I should be like my brother, how I need to succeed. We’re not a rich family, even if father is moving up in the firm, but if my parents ever found out… that I loved a boy and didn’t want to be a lawyer, it would turn their world upside down.”

“What do you want to be, René?”

Grantaire is silent. He’s spent so long trying to be something he’s not; he’s forgotten what he really is underneath all the pretending.

But then, there’s a spark.

The doodles he’s drawn in the margins of his notes for years.

The way his ears perked up when Montparnasse did his unit on Renaissance art.

“I… I think I would like to be an artist. Or study art history, perhaps.”

Valjean leans back. “That’s unexpected.”

Grantaire laughs to himself. “I know, but for as long as I can remember, art has always been around. We have a small library at home, and I can’t count how many summers I spent reading books about the works of Botticelli, da Vinci, Raphael, and Bellini.

“Art… some people don’t find use for it, and I know that I haven’t been the best follower of it once my father’s expectations came into play, but art has the ability to change people’s lives for the better. It’s… communication. It’s connection. It’s something everyone can access and something everyone can have a different opinion on. I… I want to be a part of that, in any way I can.”

“Have you told your father what you just told me,” Valjean asks. “About your passion for art? You ever show him that?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Grantaire sits there for a moment. “I can’t talk to him this way.”

Valjean leans in. “Then you're playing the part of the dutiful son. I know this sounds impossible, but you have to talk to him. You have to show him who you are, what your heart is.”

“I know what he'll say,” Grantaire says despairingly. “He'll tell me that art is a whim, and I should forget it. That they're counting on me. He'll just tell me to put it out of my mind for my own good."

“You are not an indentured servant, René,” Valjean says with forceful concern. “If it's not a whim for you, you prove it to him by your conviction and your passion. You show him that, and if he still doesn't believe you, by then you'll be out of school and you can do anything you want… whether it’s a career in art or have a relationship with Enjolras.”

Grantaire wipes away a tear. “He’s already lost his family by following his convictions. I don’t want to hurt Julien again if anything were to happen to us because of what my family might do. Isn’t there an easier way?”

Valjean shakes his head. “I’m afraid there isn’t.”

A crazed laugh bubbles up from Grantaire. “I’m trapped.”

Valjean takes Grantaire’s hand. “No, you’re not.”


	22. Interlude 5 - Behind Enemy Lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for the time span between chapters - the author is having a crisis of self confidence, as one tends to do when she's the only one that looks at this before it gets posted. She completely intends to complete this story, but we may continue on this path of extended breaks between postings unless something changes. :(

The first snowfall of the season comes to Musain, but it doesn’t stop its students in their pursuit of education.

Or the pursuit of the fairer sex.

During breakfast, Marius grabs his bicycle and makes a break for town, but not before riding by the biology department’s outdoor greenhouse and stealing a handful of Dr. Bamatabois’ flowers.

It’s a hard ride due to the snow, but Marius makes it to New Rochelle High as students are filing in for first period. The hallway is crowded, but he sees a girl with long blonde hair and pushes his way toward her. “Cosette!”

Marius reaches her, but when he reaches out to turn her around, he finds that it’s not Cosette. “Cosette Fouchelevant, do you know where she is?”

“Um, room 111, I think?”

Marius’ face brightens. “Great! What direction is that?”

The girl points in the opposite direction, so Marius once again fights against the mob to get to Cosette. He finally sees her in front of a set of lockers with two other girls. Cosette catches his eye, and turns back toward her locker. It doesn’t stop Marius from running up to her, politely pushing one of the girls out of the way.

 “Marius, what are you doing here?”

“I came to apologize. For the other night.”

Cosette pulls him away from her girlfriends and into a doorway down the hallway. “I brought you these,” Marius continues as he holds out the wildflowers. “I wrote you a poem.”

“Don’t you know that if Charlie finds you here he’ll kill you?”

“I don’t care. I love you, Cosette.”

Cosette stands there, appalled. “Marius, you’re crazy!”

“Look, I acted like a jerk and I know it. I shouldn’t have done what I did.” He extends the flowers to her again. “Just please accept these. Please?”

Cosette shakes her head. “No. I… I can’t.” The school bell rings. “Forget it, Marius.”

Marius watches as Cosette crosses the hallway into her homeroom, but it doesn’t stop him from following her a few moments later. He enters the room and stands in front of her desk.

The look on Cosette’s face is that of absolute mortification. “Marius, I don’t believe this.”

The room falls silent as Marius pulls out a piece of paper from his coat pocket. “All I’m asking you to do is listen.”

All attention from every student in the room is directed at Marius as he starts. “The heavens made a girl named Cosette, with hair and skin of gold. To touch her would be paradise…”

As Marius continues on about Cosette’s beauty, she covers her head with her arms. When he finishes, she looks up at him, her face a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Realizing he still has her flowers in hand, he sets them down on her desk and nods at her quickly before leaving the classroom and racing outside.

\--

Marius is climbing the stairs inside Minette Hall as the bell announces the beginning of the next period. Fortunately for him, the Amis are crowded around the book stalls. He goes to get his books for their next class when Courfeyrac sees him and grabs his coat. “Hey! How’d it go? You read it to her?”

Marius nods, a huge grin on his face.

The boys cheer, but Courfeyrac stops them. Feuilly gets the first word in. “What’d she say?”

“…nothing.”

“Nothing,” Courfeyrac exclaims. “What do you mean ‘nothing’?”

“Nothing,” Marius says again as he walks down the hallway. “But I did it.”

His walk turns into a run and the Amis follow him. “What did she say, Poncy? She had to say something!”

Courfeyrac never gets his answer as they wind their way through the hallway, laughing like they don’t have a care in the world.


	23. Interlude 6 - Tit For Tat

There’s too much primping in the third floor washroom.

Grantaire had talked Valjean into taking the Amis into town to see the performance of _Midsummer_ at Hadley Hall, which is why they were all there, straightening ties and checking their blazers for unwanted lint. Marius sits in the darkened window and watches as Feuilly, Joly, and Grantaire stare at themselves in the mirror. “Beautiful, baby. Hadley Hall, here I come,” Joly says to himself.

Bossuet moves in front of Grantaire and runs a brush through his hair needlessly. As payback, Grantaire paws at Bossuet’s head. “Come on, R! I’m trying to fix this,” Bossuet says as he runs the brush through his hair a few more times.

Grantaire backs off and reaches for his coat, which is on the window sill next to Marius. “Come on, Nuwanda! We’re gonna miss the start of the show.”

If Grantaire makes his request with a little more force than normal, it’s lost on Marius.

“He said something about ‘getting red’ before we left,” Feuilly says.

“Getting red,” Bossuet replies. “What does _that_ mean?”

“Well, you know Lucas,” Feuilly says before the boys hear a bathroom stall door open behind them. They all turn to see Courfeyrac exit the stall, his tie thrown back across his shoulder and his shirt unbuttoned except for the one at his collar. He’s also holding a paintbrush and a bottle of red paint.

“So, Lucas,” Bossuet asks. “What this ‘getting red’ bit?”

Courfeyrac opens his shirt and shows off his handiwork: a large red lightning bolt streaking across his chest.

Grantaire laughs. “What is that?”

As serious as anyone could ever be, Courfeyrac answers as he buttons up his shirt. “It’s an Indian warrior symbol for virility. Makes me feel… _potent_. Like it can drive girls crazy.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on, Lucas. The _girls_ are waiting.”

Marius jumps off his perch and joins the Amis as the make their way downstairs. Walking through the lobby, Bossuet stops, looking toward the side entrance. When Marius and the boys catch up, they turn to see what has stopped him.

It’s a girl.

A girl inside Corinth.

Marius recognizes her in an instant and walks toward her. “Cosette, what are you doing here?”

“Gentlemen, let’s go,” Valjean calls from the main door.

“Go ahead, guys. I’ll catch up,” Marius says, waving them off.

“Yeah. Come on, guys,” Courfeyrac says. He pushes the rest of them through the lobby, missing Joly who just stands there a few more moments staring at Cosette before Courfeyrac comes back, grabs him by his coat collar, and pulls him along.

Marius turns back to Cosette. “Cosette, you can’t be in here. If they catch you, we’re both gonna be in big trouble.”

“Oh, but it’s fine if—” Marius shushes her and leads her back outside and out of earshot. He barely notices it’s snowing. “It’s fine for you to come barging into my school and make a complete fool out of me,” Cosette asks.

Marius sighs. “I didn’t mean to make a fool out of you.”

“Well you did. What were you thinking? Charlie found out about it, and it took everything I could to keep him from coming here and killing you.”

Marius sees the Amis out of the corner of his eye getting into Valjean’s car.

“Marius, you have got to stop this stuff,” Cosette says forcefully before walking away from Marius.

She doesn’t go far before Marius moves in front of her. “I can’t, Cosette. I love you.”

Cosette looks at him with astonishment. “Marius, you say that over and over. You don’t… you don’t even _know_ me.”

“Mr. Pontmercy,” Valjean calls from the car. “Will you be joining us?”

“Go ahead, sir,” Marius responds, his eyes never leaving Cosette. “I’ll walk.”

The car starts up and drives off as Cosette circles Marius. “Marius, if it just so happens that I could care less about you…”

Marius turns back to Cosette and smiles. “Then you wouldn’t be here warning me about Charlie.”

Cosette rolls her eyes and begins to walk past him, but Marius stops her and turns her around. They look at each other for a few quiet moments. “I have to go,” Cosette finally says. “I’m gonna be late for the play.”

A possessiveness Marius didn’t know he had rises up. “Are you going with _him_?”

Cosette laughs. “Charlie? To a play? Are you kidding?”

“Then come with me.”

“Marius, you are so infuriating,” Cosette groans.

“Come on, Cosette, just give me one chance,” Marius asks as Cosette walks off. “If you don’t like me after tonight, I’ll stay away forever.”

“Uh-huh,” Cosette says, disbelief written all over her face.

“I promise, Amis’ Honor. You come with me tonight, and then if you don’t want to see me again, I swear I’ll bow out.”

“You know what would happen if Charlie found out?”

Marius smiles. “He won’t know anything. We’ll sit in the back and sneak out as soon as it’s over.”

“And I _suppose_ you would promise that this would be the end of it?”

“Amis’ Honor.”

“What is that,” Cosette asks, thoughtfully.

“My word,” Marius responds.

Cosette walks off again while Marius scuffs his feet in the snow, waiting for her answer. He looks up and sees her smile and beckon him over. “You are _so_ infuriating.”

Marius smiles and joins her, putting his arm over her shoulders as they walk in the falling snow.


	24. Opening Night

Valjean and the Amis find their seats a few minutes before curtain. They were perfect; right in the center only a few rows up from the stage. Grantaire had expected to be seated in the back or in the balcony, because they were so late due to the storm, but Enjolras had seats set aside for them, which makes Grantaire smile inside.

Seated between Valjean and Combeferre, Grantaire is giddy with excitement. Down the aisle to his left Bossuet, Courfeyrac, Joly, Feuilly, Jehan, and Bahorel settle themselves. He’s disappointed that Marius isn’t with them, but deciding to walk to town with Cosette would probably slow him down. Grantaire hopes he makes it in time.

\--

The first time Enjolras is on stage, the grin on Grantaire’s face is a mile wide. He’d seen it before, the day he came to rehearsal, but it wasn’t in costume. Alex, staying true to the setting of the play, had the costumers dress everyone in the Grecian style, which meant short tunics and cloaks for the men and long flowing dresses for the women. Enjolras’ costume, white with a bright red cloak, was completed with a diadem of the same bright red tied around his head.

From his first conversation with Titania and his dealings with Puck, Grantaire could see that the audience was hanging on his every word. Normally Puck is the more approachable fairy and the one that gets the most audience participation, and Rob’s performance as Puck was doing just that, but as Oberon schemes to steal Titania’s changeling boy from under her nose, Enjolras’ performance is rock solid.

Even Courfeyrac is impressed, leaning over Bossuet and Combeferre to whisper to Grantaire, “He’s good. He’s _really_ good!”

\--

Grantaire’s attention doesn’t wonder much throughout the play, but toward the end when Bottom’s Players perform after the wedding, he does look back into the audience. What he finds is Marius toward the back of the house, hand in hand with Cosette. He leans in to tell Combeferre, but before he’s able to say anything, he sees Enjolras watching the audience through the wings.

Watching him, if Grantaire would deem to be more specific.

And he stops.

Enjolras is hidden in the shadows, but his mop of golden hair fights against the dark and betrays him. He comes forward ever so slightly, and Grantaire can see the war on his face between Oberon and Enjolras – the war to stay in character versus the excitement the boy wants to share with the one person in the audience he cares is there.

Grantaire nods and smiles at him, and throws at him in that smile all the affection and pride he has.

The character breaks, and Enjolras beams back.

\--

“Through the house give glimmering light by the dead and drowsy fire; every elf and fairy sprite hop as light as bird from briar; and this ditty after me sing, and dance it trippingly.”

“First rehearse your song by rote, to each word a warbling note; hand in hand, with fairy grace, we will sing, and bless this place.”

“Now, until the break of day, through this house each fairy stray. To the best bride-bed will we, which by us shall bless-ed be; and the issue there create ever shall be fortunate. So shall all the couples three ever true in loving be; and the blots of Nature’s hand shall not in their issue stand: never mole, hare-lip, nor scar, nor mark prodigious, such as are despised in nativity, shall upon their children be. With this field-dew consecrate, every fairy take his gait, and each several chamber bless through this palace with sweet peace; and the owner of it blest, ever shall in safety rest. Trip away; make no stay; meet me all by break of day.”

Enjolras walks off stage with his Titania, and Grantaire could not be more pleased to hear the next few lines.

“If we shadows have offended, think but this, and all is mended…”

\--

The curtain call comes soon after, and when Enjolras and Natalie stand alone to take their individual honors as Oberon and Titania, Grantaire, Valjean, and the Amis stand and clap and hoot and holler.

Grantaire desperately hopes that Enjolras can hear him among the clamor.

\--

Grantaire doesn’t expect for Enjolras to jump off stage after curtain call, still in costume, and make his way straight toward him. He’s surprised when the audience members part for him. He also doesn’t expect Enjolras to take him up and embrace him with such force. “We did it, René! We did it!”

“You were fantastic, Julien. You _all_ were.”

“Thank you. I’m so glad you came.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

Enjolras lets Grantaire go, and when he sees the look of surprise on Valjean’s face past Enjolras’ shoulder, he expects and sees the same look on the rest of the Amis. “Julien, you’ve met everyone before, but you haven’t met Mr. Valjean yet.”

Enjolras turns to face Valjean. “It’s a pleasure, sir.”

Grantaire, a hand now on the back of Enjolras’ arm, feels the armor, the professional Enjolras, go up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… normally I’m more polite than I was just now.”

Valjean smiles. “It’s all right, young Enjolras. You were amazing tonight. You left me speechless.”

“Thank you. René speaks very highly of you.”

“And of you as well.”

Grantaire watches as a flicker of understanding passes between Enjolras and Valjean.

“We’re in good company, then.”

“I believe we are.”

Enjolras smiles at Valjean before turning back to Grantaire. “I have to go change before Abigail has my head. Can you stay a little while longer?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You all can stay,” Enjolras adds, addressing the group. “Everyone is heading to the Mars Café for dinner. You’re all welcome to join us.”

“I have to get the car back to campus,” Valjean says.

“We’ll walk back, Mr. V,” Courfeyrac says. “We won’t stay long. If Marius can do it in the middle of a snowstorm, so can we.”

“Can do what?” Marius joins them, Cosette standing next to him.

“Walk in a winter wonderland, Poncy,” Courfeyrac replies.

“Great. I’ll only be a few minutes,” Enjolras says.

Enjolras gives one last smile in Grantaire’s direction before heading backstage.

\--

‘We won’t stay long’ turns into ‘stay until closing’.

Surrounded by the cast and decent diner food, conversations grow and twist and form into new narratives with different members. Joly and Feuilly start off as awkward as ever, until Loretta and Rob are able to get them talking about DIY radio kits, and then they can’t stop. Courfeyrac chats up Natalie for most of the evening, Jehan shares his own verse with a few of Titania’s fairies, Marius and Cosette spend the whole night talking to each other, and Bossuet eats his meatloaf in silence.

Bahorel was the only one who went back to Musain with Valjean.

Grantaire finds that he enjoys listening to Combeferre and Enjolras discuss a variety of different topics: the new Cuban government, the death of Buddy Holly, Miles Davis’ new album, the conflict in Vietnam, the opening of the Guggenheim Museum, and so much more. Only a recent transplant into New Rochelle, Grantaire could talk a bit about the Guggenheim, seeing the building take shape when visiting his grandparents on the Upper East Side.

“It’s so different than anything else on 5th Avenue,” Grantaire says, taking a bite from his hamburger. “I can’t wait to see the collection inside.”

“We’ll go the city one of these days, René. I’ll take you there,” Enjolras says as he takes Grantaire’s hand and squeezes it.

Grantaire sees Combeferre raise an eyebrow, but instead of saying anything, Combeferre looks at his watch. “Guys, it’s almost 1am. We need to go.”

No one besides Grantaire and Enjolras are paying attention.

“ _Amis_! Lucas, Michel, Jehan, we have to get going. Thenardier will have locked up Corinth ages ago!”

“Don’t sweat it, Adrien,” Courfeyrac says, pulling himself off Natalie. “You know Michel and I never lock our window. We can all get in that way.”

“Oh, I relish the thought climbing three stories up a drain pipe to get back into Corinth. In the snow.”

“You want to knock on Thenardier’s window, then?”

“Of course not, but that doesn’t mean we still don’t have a long walk ahead of us.”

Combeferre grabs his coat and slides out from behind the table. This action causes the rest of the Amis to follow suit, with the most grumbling coming from Courfeyrac. Grantaire goes for his jacket when Enjolras stops him. “I’ll make sure René gets home, Adrien.”

“Are you sure, Enjolras? We’re already gonna be in trouble missing curfew.”

“If anything happens, Adrien,” Jehan says, coming up to stand next to Combeferre. “Valjean will fix it, if he hasn’t already. We told him where we were, and he said it was okay. If Thenardier wants to take it up with anyone, he can take it up with Valjean.”

Combeferre sighs. “You swear you’ll look after him?”

“On my life, Adrien,” Enjolras responds.

“Fine, then. Come on, guys. Let’s get back.”

The Amis walk out of the café and head out toward the direction of Musain, leaving Grantaire with Enjolras and the last of the cast members still in the café. He can tell that the café’s staff have been waiting for this moment with everything closed down except for the few booths and tables they have been occupying.

“Thanks, guys,” Enjolras says with a wave toward the staff. “We’ll get out of your hair now.”

With that, everyone takes their cue from Enjolras and makes their way outside. Enjolras shares a few farewells and kisses a few cheeks before taking Grantaire under his arm and leading him down the street.

“Where are we going,” Grantaire asks.

“Home,” Enjolras replies. “It’s not far.”

Grantaire smiles. “I’m not going back to Musain any time soon, am I?”

“Unless you want to, René.”

Grantaire shakes his head.

Enjolras takes the chance and quickly kisses Grantaire’s temple. “I can always use Alex’s car to get you back. Don’t worry.”

They walk several minutes more through the falling snow toward the shoreline until Enjolras stops them in front of a bungalow steps away from the water. “You and Alex live here?”

Enjolras nods. “It works for us. We spend most of our time at Hadley, anyways.”

“Is he home?”

“The car’s here. He won’t mind, though. I’m sure he’s asleep already.”

Sure enough, when Enjolras unlocks the front door, the only light on is the one above the dining room table. It gives off enough light for Grantaire to see the rest of the house: the small living room with several small full bookshelves, the kitchen, the dining room with its sliding glass door facing the Sound, and a short hallway off to the right with three different doors.

“Do you want anything? Water? Soda?”

“Water’s fine, Julien. Thank you.”

Enjolras takes two glasses out of a cupboard, fills them, and hands one to Grantaire. He then leads Grantaire toward one of the closed doors and opens it. Grantaire stands in the doorway as Enjolras goes inside and turns on the light. When he does, Grantaire sees that Enjolras’ bedroom is much tidier than his dressing room at Hadley but still has Enjolras’ personal touch: a few choice Broadway posters and Playbills framed and hung on the wall, cast pictures with Enjolras on the dresser, and another picture of his parents on one of his bedside tables.

Grantaire moves into the room and looks closely at the posters. “Were they good?”

“ _Long Day’s Journey Into Night_? _Cat on a Hot Tin Roof_? _West Side Story_? Yes, very.” Enjolras goes and stands behind Grantaire. “After Alex took me in, we made a deal to go down to the city and see at least one show a year. These are the ones we’ve seen.”

Enjolras wraps his arms around Grantaire and puts his head on Grantaire’s shoulder. “That’s where I want to be, René. When I’m down in the City walking down Broadway, surrounded by all the people and the lights… I feel like I’m home. I’ll be there, someday, on one of those stages.”

“I know you will. You really were amazing tonight.”

“And I want you to be there with me. We’ll visit the Guggenheim, we’ll see any play we want, you’ll go to school and I’ll act and we’ll live the lives we want to. The _way_ we want to.”

Grantaire turns to face Enjolras. “You mean it?”

“I do. There’s only so much that New Rochelle can offer.” Enjolras takes Grantaire’s glass and sets it on the bedside table. “There are… neighborhoods down in the city. Where people like us can be themselves. Where… where I can hold your hand, or kiss you, and not be afraid of what people might think or what they might do.”

Grantaire sighs. “That would be… amazing.”

It doesn’t take much after that. Grantaire is first to move in and attack Enjolras’ mouth with his own. It’s a move filled with desperation and longing. “I’ll do it. I’ll go with you, Julien. The two of us. Together.”

Enjolras smiles. “It’ll happen for us, René. I know it.”

Enjolras moves the two of them toward the bed, with Enjolras letting Grantaire cover him once the back of his knees hit the side. They stay there, kissing and touching, until Enjolras begins to unbutton Grantaire’s shirt. Grantaire echoes Enjolras and does the same. When the shirts come off, the boys then work on their belts and pants and shoes. It’s not a smooth transition from clothed to unclothed, but they don’t care.

Arranging themselves correctly on the bed, Grantaire suddenly freezes. He’s naked with Enjolras next to him, and he knows where this can go, but he doesn’t know what to do next. “I,” Grantaire starts. “This is my…”

Enjolras cups his chin and kisses him slowly. “It’s all right, I understand. We can, we can stop this. Or just do we did at Hadley. René, I want to make love to you, but I won’t unless you say so. It’ll hurt, because it’s your first time, but I’ll go slow. I’ll do whatever I need to do. I want to make your first time so good for you, René. I really do.”

The earnestness in Enjolras’ voice is what breaks him. Grantaire nods. “Just don’t expect the best from me, Julien.”

“It’s all right. We have time to learn each other. We’ll have all the time in the world.”

Enjolras reaches toward one of his bedside tables and pulls out a tub of Vaseline and a foil packet. He sets them aside before taking one of the bed’s pillows in hand. “Lift up your hips, René.”

Grantaire does so, and Enjolras slips the pillow underneath. “This will help.”

Enjolras arranges Grantaire where he needs to be, then opens the packet and rolls the condom onto himself. He then takes the tub of Vaseline and opens it. “I’ll need to open you up, now. Try to relax as much as possible. I know it’s going to be difficult, but do your best. It’ll get better, I promise,” Enjolras says with a reassuring smile.

Grantaire nods and breathes as Enjolras takes some of the jelly and begins to rub it around Grantaire’s hole. It’s cold, and Grantaire hisses with the sensation, but it warms quickly. When Enjolras starts to work a finger in, he tenses up, even though he doesn’t want to. That’s when Enjolras moves up and kisses him and wraps his free hand around Grantaire’s cock to stroke and tease. Focusing on Enjolras’ lips and hand pulls Grantaire’s focus in too many directions, which makes it easier to loosen up for Enjolras and his other ministrations.

Enjolras is able to get another finger in after a few minutes, then another. Grantaire, on the other hand, is a whimpering mess. With Enjolras touching him everywhere ( _his face, his chest, his cock, oh my god his **cock**_ ) and whispering into his ear about how he had been watching Grantaire from off stage for far longer than he saw and how long he’s dreamt about being here in this moment, worshiping Grantaire they way he’s wanted to, it’s driving Grantaire crazy. “Please, Julien. I can’t… just. Please. I need, oh my _god_ …”

Enjolras shushes him with a kiss to his jaw. “We’ll get there. You and I. We’ll get there.”

Enjolras removes his hand, and Grantaire would be mortified by the sounds he’s making if he had the two brain cells to put together. But then Grantaire feels something blunt and larger than Enjolras’ fingers trying to brace his entrance. “This is it, René. Are you ready?”

“Yes, Julien. Oh god, please…”

So Enjolras does.

He goes slow, true to his word. Pushing through, a moan escapes Enjolras’ lips while Grantaire grips at the bed sheets. “Jesus, René. I never thought. I never thought it would be…”

“Keep going, Julien. For the love of God, keep going. Don’t stop.”

Enjolras doesn’t stop until he’s seated fully into Grantaire, then the two of them just breathe together. Grantaire, whose eyes have been closed nearly the entire time, opens them to see Enjolras’ clear blue eyes staring down at him. “You tell me when, René.”

A few more deep breaths and Grantaire is ready. When he nods, Enjolras starts to move, and the sensations Grantaire feels make him want to fly apart or implode on himself, he can’t decide. All he’s able to focus on is Enjolras, on his body, and the flood of emotions this boy is making him feel. Almost unconscious of himself, Grantaire wraps his legs around Enjolras’ waist and his arms around Enjolras’ back, clinging onto him for what feels like dear life.

And Enjolras takes it and gives right back. He arranges himself so he can still stroke Grantaire’s cock and matches his thrusts with those same movements.

He even kisses away an errant tear or two from Grantaire’s face.

The constant bombardment of sensations proves too much for Grantaire, and before he has a chance to warn Enjolras, his orgasm hits him and he spends himself all over his own stomach. Floating on Cloud Nine, he barely registers his name on Enjolras’ lips and the other boy’s release inside him. He does feel Enjolras pull out, leave the bed, and then return with a damp washcloth to clean him up. He smiles when he hears the wet smack of the washcloth on the hardwood floor, followed by Enjolras’ arms wrapped around him. “You really should take care of that.”

“Later. I’m enjoying my boyfriend’s company at the moment.”

 Grantaire lifts his head up slightly. “I’m your boyfriend?”

Enjolras laughs. “I thought that was obvious, considering the plans we made and the act we just committed.”

“Yeah, it’s just… I never thought I’d actually hear someone… say that.”

Enjolras kisses Grantaire nice and easy. “Yes, René. You’re my boyfriend, and you will be until you change your mind. As someone I love very dearly once said, you’re stuck with me.”

The smile on Grantaire’s face was all the reply that Enjolras needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look what we have here! Enjoy this while you can, because if you're familiar with the film, you know what comes next...


	25. Strength

Sunlight filters in through the sheer curtains drawn across Enjolras’ window, waking Grantaire.

During the night, the two of them found themselves under the blankets, their heads barely peeking above them. Blinking a few times, Grantaire opens his eyes fully to find himself face to face with Enjolras, who is still asleep beside him. Grantaire can’t help but reach out and lightly touch and explore the contours of Enjolras’ brow, his cheek, his chin, finally coming to rest on the small smile forming on Enjolras’ lips.

“Good morning, René.”

“Good morning.”

Enjolras reaches over to pull Grantaire into a quick kiss. “Don’t mind the morning breath.”

The one kiss turns into two.

Then three.

Then a whole lot more.

The two of them share each other’s company as the sun continues to rise until it comes up above the window sill. It’s only then that Grantaire remembers where exactly he is.

“Julien, what time is it?”

Enjolras twists back to look at his alarm clock. “It’s 8:40.”

Grantaire’s eyes widen. “Oh, god. I’m late! I need to get going. I’m gonna be in so much trouble, missing curfew last night, not to mention this morning’s roll call.”

Grantaire goes to get out of bed, but before he does Enjolras cups Grantaire’s cheek, his face turned quite somber. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

Grantaire responds by turning his head to kiss Enjolras’ palm. “I don’t care, though. I’ll take anything they throw at me, Julien. Last night was… you’re more important than demerits on my record or whatever punishment Javert has planned for me.”

The small smile that Enjolras gives Grantaire in return doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Julien,” Grantaire says. “It’s not going to matter after a few months, you said so yourself. I love you, and while I’m not going to run off and join the circus, I’m not going to be their puppet either. I know what I want to do with my life, and you’re gonna be there with me.”

Grantaire gives Enjolras a quick kiss then throws back the blankets on his side of the bed. “Come on, we need to get a move on.”

Enjolras lingers in bed a few more moments, watching Grantaire get dressed. “I love you too, René, but I’ve been down this road as well. It’s not easy. Not by a long shot.”

Grantaire looks back at Enjolras. “I know, but if you’re there waiting for me at the end of it, it’s worth it.”

\--

Enjolras drops off Grantaire a little ways from the Musain gates. They exchange a quick embrace before Grantaire leaves the warmth of Alex’s car and begins his trek back to campus. He’s at a full run toward the end, trying to get back to Corinth without breaking his neck. He succeeds, speeding through the lobby and up toward his room. When he gets there, he opens the door to find someone inside.

It’s Dr. Thenardier.

“Mr. Grantaire, how kind of you to return to campus. Headmaster Javert is waiting for you in his office.”

Grantaire hangs his head, dejected.

\--

“So, you expect me to believe that you just spent the entire night in town?”

Grantaire nods. “Yes, sir. After the play, the snow began to fall so hard I didn’t think I could make it back to campus on my own after everyone else left. One of the actors let me sleep on his sofa and then dropped me off this morning.”

“Why didn’t you come back with the rest of your classmates? They had enough sense to come back before the weather turned.”

“I… I don’t know, sir. One minute we were all together, and the next… they were all gone. I didn’t see them leave.”

Headmaster Javert sits behind his desk, his fingers steepled in front of him, his face thoughtful. Grantaire does his best to look truthful as he stands in front of the headmaster. It was the truth, mostly, leaving out a few private details. Javert doesn’t need to know what activities he and Enjolras were up to. He just hopes he can get to the Amis to tell them his story before more questions are asked.

“I find it hard to believe your story, Mr. Grantaire, and I’m very disappointed in you. Being a new transfer to Musain, I wish you would have taken better care of your reputation within these walls. I will have to contact your parents and inform them of this infraction. As for your punishment, you will be confined to campus for the remainder of this term. Any extracurricular activities you may have been involved in with your classes will be denied. If you cannot prove yourself trustworthy, I may extend your confinement to next term as well. Assume the position.”

Grantaire sighs. He had a feeling this was coming. As he leans to take hold of Javert’s large wooden desk, the headmaster comes out from behind it and goes to grab a large wooden paddle hanging on the wall. Holding his weapon of choice, Javert stands behind Grantaire unbuttoning his shirtsleeves.

“Count aloud, Mr. Grantaire,” Javert says.

Grantaire tries to steel himself. The sudden jolt and the smack of pain on his backside catches him unawares. “One.”

Javert paddles him again.

“Two,” Grantaire says with a grunt.

The third makes his backside feel like it’s on fire. His voice cracks. “Three.”

But then he thinks of Enjolras. And smiles. Reminds himself that his momentary punishment will ultimately reap the best reward.

Smack.

“Four.”

Another smack, faster than before.

“Five.”

“Are you going to tell me the truth, Mr. Grantaire?”

Smack.

“Six. I did, Mr. Javert. There’s nothing else to say.”

Smack.

“Seven.”

“Tell me, Mr. Grantaire. Why did you stay in town? Was it drugs? Alcohol? A girl?”

Smack.

Grantaire’s not sure how many more he can take. “Eight! Nothing of the kind, sir! I got caught in the storm! I swear!”

Grantaire closes his eyes, expecting another wallop, but another one doesn’t come. He listens as Javert returns the paddle to its peg. “Go on, Mr. Grantaire. Clean yourself up. I expect for you to be on the roll after lunch.”

Grantaire stands slowly, then looks Javert in the eye. “I will, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Grantaire exits Javert’s office with his head held high.

\--

“What the hell happened today, R?”

After dinner that night, the Amis gather in Grantaire and Combeferre’s room. Grantaire, who is sitting gingerly on his bed, picks at his fingernails.

“It’s, it’s something I’d rather not talk about. Not yet.”

“Come on, R,” Courfeyrac says. “We’re all friends here. You can tell us anything.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Does it have something to do with Enjolras,” Combeferre asks. “He seemed to take an… interest. In you. Last night.”

Grantaire sighs.

“It does, doesn’t it. R, whatever he’s doing, whatever he’s got you involved in—”

“No! It’s nothing like that,” Grantaire exclaims. “But if I tell you… I’m afraid you all will… think less of me.”

Combeferre, who was sitting on his own bed, moves over to sit next to Grantaire. “I swear, your secret is safe with us. Amis' Honor, everyone?”

The rest of the Amis nod and give their word.

Grantaire takes a deep breath. “I guess there isn’t an easy way to say this.” Grantaire turns to look at Marius, who’s sitting at Grantaire’s desk. “Marius, how do you feel about Cosette?”

Startled, Marius answers. “I love her. I’d do anything for her.”

“Fight Charlie for her?”

“As well as I could manage.”

“Face the wrath of Charlie’s parents? Her parents? _Your_ parents?”

“Yes, R. Where are you going with this?”

“Well, the way you feel about Cosette… Julien feels the same way about me. And I feel the same way about him.”

You could hear a pin drop in that dorm room for the utter silence coming from each of the boys.

Bossuet is the first one to speak. “R, are you saying that you’re…”

Grantaire straightens up. “Yes. I’m in love with Julien. I’m not ashamed of that. I told Javert that an actor from the play let me sleep on his sofa last night, and I did spend the night with Julien, but not on his sofa.”

“Who else knows, R,” Courfeyrac asks quietly.

“Valjean knows of our relationship, but you all are the only ones who knows about last night.”

Combeferre nods. “All right, then. R, I’ll admit I’m a little shocked, and where I may not agree with your relationship, you are our friend. We’ll stick by you with this. Right, everyone?”

Everyone nods.

“This stays between us,” Combeferre says to the group. “It’s R’s decision to tell anyone else. Anyone asks? No one gives any names, we leave Enjolras out of this. R’s already been punished, so to the administration this should be a done deal.”

Grantaire feels like a weight has been lifted off his chest. “Thanks, everyone. I’m… I’m not ashamed, but I know that there are people who aren’t as… accepting as you all are being right now.”

“You’re an Ami, R,” Jehan says. “Nothing’s gonna change that.”

“That’s right,” Bahorel adds. “Anyone that has a beef with you will have one with me.”

“And me,” Feuilly says.

“Me too,” Joly and Marius say in tandem.

No one catches on that Bossuet doesn’t add to the assent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for the absolute tardiness in the update of this fic. A full-time retail job does not a creative mind make.
> 
> I also wasn't in the mood to start our downward emotional spiral. Bear with me. We'll get there.
> 
> Also, if anyone cares, in my head Alex and Enjolras' car is whatever the American version of the [Opel Kadett A](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Opel_Kadett) is, even though it didn't go into production until three years after this fic takes place and would also be an import. If you're familiar with Top Gear UK, you will know why this car is important. ;)


	26. Breakdown

The days progress, but Grantaire can’t help but feel like he’s being watched. He’s sure that Javert has “warned” the teachers about him, about him being “untrustworthy”, his censure, and his confinement to campus. They all look at him differently. Treat him differently.

All except Valjean.

The phone call from his parents wasn’t a highlight either. His father was livid, calling him irresponsible. Reminding him that Gavroche _never_ pulled off a stunt like that when he was in school. They punished him as well by cutting off his allowance indefinitely, counting on Javert’s word on when to restore it.

Of course, Grantaire couldn’t get a word in. Tell them his side of the story. Stand up to them like Valjean prompted him to before all this mess. He just took the punishment, like a good son would.

The Amis did what they could: Marius bringing back a comic book or two when he would go into New Rochelle to see Cosette, Combeferre buying him an extra candy bar from the student store, Jehan writing him silly stories to see him smile.

It all would have been bearable if he’d been able to see Enjolras.

\--

Then, a few weeks later, he did.

\--

Grantaire was walking down toward the pier when he saw a figure, dark against the recent snowfall, walking toward him from the direction of the school’s driveway. He would have thought it just any other Musain student, except for the bright shock of blond hair that sat atop that particular person’s head.

“Enjolras!”

Enjolras ran toward him, waving his gloved hands in front of him. “René, don’t shout. They can’t know I’m here.”

“But you are! Why? How?”

“I hadn’t heard from you since I dropped you off. I didn’t know what happened to you. I needed to see, I needed to find out if you…”

Grantaire embraced Enjolras. “I’m right here. I didn’t get sent away. Just confined to campus. I should have written you. I’m sorry.”

“Yes, you should have,” Enjolras said with a smirk on his face. “I’m very disappointed in you.”

“Please don’t say that,” Grantaire asked. “I know you don’t mean it like that, but it’s just… it just seems like that’s what everyone here thinks about me.”

Enjolras’ face turns serious. “This is all my fault. I should be the one apologizing to you. I should have gotten you here sooner. Or you should have gone home with your friends, or—“

“It’s no one’s fault. We both made decisions that affected what happened that night.”

Grantaire looks down toward the water, turning his face from Enjolras slightly, but wearing a small smile. “I am glad to see you, though. I’ve missed you. A lot.”

“Me too.” Enjolras tugs Grantaire’s face back toward his and kisses him. “Just don’t do that to me again, alright? You _write_ me. You _call_ me. I can’t always come out here and risk my neck just for a glimpse of your precious face.”

A door slams in the distance, but the sound against the silence of the Quad makes them both jump.

Grantaire pushes Enjolras back. “You need to go. Someone may have seen us.”

Enjolras nods, but does steal another quick peck from Grantaire before running off back toward the Musain gates.

Grantaire watches him until he crests the hill and is out of sight before scanning around, checking if anyone saw him.

Coming out of the shadows of Minette’s cloisters is Bossuet, headed in Grantaire’s direction.

Grantaire’s face brightens. “Michel! What’s up?”

“Study hall, R. You weren’t there.”

“Yeah… I was out here.” Grantaire shifts his weight. “Admiring the view.”

“Alone?”

Grantaire nods, even though he has no ability to hide Enjolras’ footprints, which are in clear view of Bossuet.

Bossuet eyes him over. “Well, come on. Bahorel needs your help on his homework for Montparnasse.”

\--

Grantaire wanted to believe them.

They’re _his_ Amis. They swore. Dead Poets’ Honor.

But he’s sure someone’s told when Javert calls for another all-school assembly.

“I have been informed that there has been activity on this campus that goes against Musain policy,” Javert begins, scanning the room as he speaks. “Including, but not limited to, leaving campus unattended and unscheduled and unauthorized visits from outsiders. This behavior will not be tolerated at this school. We’ve contacted each of your parents to explain the situation, and naturally they’re all quite concerned. To maintain the integrity of this institution, I intend to conduct a thorough inquiry into this matter.”

Javert stops speaking when he looks at Grantaire. “Your complete cooperation is expected.”

\--

“You told him about this meeting?”

“Twice.”

The Amis have crammed themselves up into the attic of Musain between the stacks of suitcases and duffel bags. Everyone is in attendance.

Everyone except Bossuet.

“That's it, guys. We're all fried,” Courfeyrac says, lighting one of his contraband cigarettes.

“How do you mean,” Joly asks. 

“Bossuet's a fink,” Courfeyrac responds, his voice slightly crazed. “He's in Javert's office right now, finking.”

“About what?” 

“The club, Joly. Think about it. ‘Leaving campus unattended’? I don’t know what this ‘unscheduled visit’ shit is, but do you think for one moment Javert’s gonna let this thing just blow over? They need a scapegoat.” 

“I do,” Grantaire offers, dejected. “I mean, I think I know what Javert’s on about. Enjolras came by campus to check on me. I think… I think Bossuet saw us.” 

“Did you do anything,” Combeferre asks.

Grantaire nods. “I kissed him.”

“Jesus,” Feuilly says.

Before anyone else can comment on Grantaire’s confession, the Amis hear the attic door open and they frantically try to get rid of their lit cigarettes. Marius is the first one to see Bossuet come round the corner. 

“What's going on, guys,” Bossuet asks.

“You finked, didn't you, Michel,” Courfeyrac says as he stands.

“Finked? I don't know what the hell you're talking about.”

“You told Javert everything about the club is what I'm talking about!”

Bossuet’s face goes stern. “Look, in case you hadn't heard, _Lucas_ , there's something called an honor code at this school, all right? If a teacher asks you a question, you tell the truth or you're expelled, and I’m not getting expelled.”

“You little—“

Courfeyrac tries to take a swing at Bossuet, but is held back by Marius and Joly.

“He's a rat,” Courfeyrac yells. “He's in it up to his eyes, so he ratted to save himself!”

“Don't touch him, Courf,” Marius warns. “You do and you're out.”

“Javert hates me. I'm out anyway!”

“You don't know that, not yet.”

“He's right there, Courf.” Bossuet says. “And if you guys are smart, you will do exactly what I did and cooperate. They're not after us. We're the victims, R most of all.”

Grantaire’s eyes go wide. Everyone looks at him except for Courfeyrac, who continues to glare at Bossuet.

“What's that mean? Who are they after?”

“Why, Mr. Valjean, of course, the ‘Captain’ himself! I mean, you guys didn't really think he could avoid responsibility, did you?”

“Mr. Valjean responsible for this? Is that what they're saying?”

“Well, who else do you think, dumb ass! Mr. Valjean put us up to all this crap, didn't he? If he wasn't for him, we’d all be doing our homework in our rooms just like always, and Rene here would have never had the opportunity to become as… light in the loafers as he is.”

Grantaire explodes. “That’s not true, Michel! Valjean didn’t put us up to anything, and I found Julien completely on my own! It’s not his fault, and you know it.”

“Believe what you want, R, but I say let Valjean fry,” Bossuet says. “I mean, why ruin our lives?”

Without anyone holding him back, Courfeyrac tries again and connects with Bossuet, punching him in the face and giving him a bloody nose. Bossuet falls back as the Amis pull Courfeyrac away from him.

“You just signed your expulsion papers, _Nuwanda_ ,” Bossuet says with a sneer as he stands. “And if the rest of you are smart, you'll do exactly what I did. They know everything anyway. You can't save Valjean, but you can save yourselves."

Bossuet walks out, leaving the rest of the Amis to ponder the scene just laid before them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... that was a long and unexpected hiatus. My extreme apologies.
> 
> With this chapter complete, there's only three more chapters before this tale comes to its conclusion. I think I've gotten over the hump, so we shouldn't have nearly a year between updates again.
> 
> Many thanks for your patience.


	27. Defiance

After Bossuet finks a second time, Courfeyrac is taken out of Corinth by Thenardier, suitcase in hand.

Then Jehan is called to Javert’s office.

Followed by Bahorel.

Combeferre.

Feuilly.

Then it’s Joly on the chopping block.

Grantaire watches through the window as Thenardier brings Joly back from Javert’s office. After Thenardier calls for Marius, Grantaire crosses the hallway to the room that Joly shares with Bossuet.

“Joly?”

“Go away,” a quiet voice says through the door. “I have to study.”

“You know what happened to Nuwanda?”

“Expelled.”

Grantaire leans against the door frame. “What’d you tell them?”

A sigh. “Nothing they didn’t already know.”

Another voice from behind the door. “Leave him alone, R. Just leave him alone.”

“We wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for you, Michel,” Grantaire says with a level of distain he didn’t know he possessed before returning to his own room.

\--

When it’s finally his turn, Grantaire follows Thenardier to Javert’s office. He’s not sure what to expect, but he certainly doesn’t expect his parents to be there, waiting for him. Grantaire smiles at his mother, who returns the gesture.

“Have a seat, Mr. Grantaire,” Javert says, gesturing to the last open chair facing his desk.

Javert begins as Grantaire sits. “Mr. Grantaire, I think we’ve pretty well put together what’s happened here. You do admit to being a part of Les Amis?”

Grantaire is speechless. He knows that any response he makes is going to hurt someone, whether it’s Valjean or himself.

“Answer him, René,” his father says, sternly.

Finally, Grantaire nods. “Yes, sir.”

Javert continues. “I have here a detailed description of what occurred at your meetings. It describes how your teacher, Mr. Valjean, encouraged you boys to organize this club and to use it as a source of inspiration for reckless and self-indulgent behavior, including Mr. Combeferre’s dabble into acting, Mr. Courfeyrac’s outbursts, Mr. Pontmercy’s interactions in town, and what I can only deduce is your… activities with a certain gentleman that has been seen on campus on at least one occasion, but has been expounded upon by other members of your group.”

Grantaire quickly looks over at his parents, trying to gauge their reaction. His father is as stone-faced as ever, but his mother… he can’t read her.

“It describes how Mr. Valjean, both in and out of the classroom, encouraged you and your friends to follow these impulses, which go against several policies that have been in place at Musain for decades. It was Mr. Valjean’s blatant abuse of his position as teacher that led directly to all these infractions.”

Grantaire’s father takes a piece of paper from in front of him and slides it toward Grantaire.

“Read over that document carefully, René,” Javert says. “Very carefully.”

Grantaire does, barely. What stand out most to him is the signatures of all his friends at the bottom of the page, with only one space left above his name for his own, his full name typed out like a badge of shame.

“If you’ve nothing to add or amend, sign it,” Javert says.

Grantaire swallows, trying to find his voice. He looks up from the paper at Javert. “What’s going to happen to Mr. Valjean?”

An exasperated sigh comes from Grantaire’s father. “I’ve had enough. Sign the paper, René!”

“No,” Grantaire says, surprising himself. “Not until I know what’s going to happen to him. It’s not all Valjean’s fault. I… I found Julien myself. He’s _mine_. Mr. Valjean didn’t even know about him until I told him weeks afterwards. He shouldn’t be punished for something I did.”

“We’ll discuss _Julien_ at another time, René,” his father continues, looking at Grantaire likes he’s a shadow. “Sign the paper. _Now_.”

Turning back to Javert, he sees his headmaster holding out a pen toward him.

“I think you know what’s going to happen to him, Mr. Grantaire, and it will happen with or without your cooperation. For the sake of your parents, for the sake of your _mother_ , I suggest you comply with your father’s wishes.”

With a sense of resignation, Grantaire takes the pen.

\--

English class was cancelled the next day.

Valjean was nowhere to be seen.

\--

The announcement in homeroom that English class was on for the day lifts Grantaire’s spirits.

Perhaps his worst fears won’t be realized.

\--

Valjean isn’t in class when the boys come into the classroom. They take their seats, Courfeyrac’s desk noticeably empty. They sit silently until the door opens behind them.

It’s Javert.

They all stand from their desks until Javert reaches the head of the classroom and motions for them to be seated.

“I’ll be teaching this class through winter exams,” Javert announces to the class. “We’ll find a permanent English teacher during the break.”

Javert begins to empty his satchel. “Who will tell me where you are in the Prichard textbook?”

The silence in the room is deafening.

“Mr. Grantaire,” Javert asks.

Grantaire stammers, his voice barely above a whisper. “In the… in the Pritchard, sir?”

“I can’t hear you, Mr. Grantaire.”

Grantaire clears his throat. “In the Pritchard?”

Obviously annoyed, Javert moves on. “Kindly inform me, Mr. Bossuet.”

“We skipped around a lot sir,” Bossuet begins. “We covered the Romantics and some of the chapters on Post Civil War literature.”

Javert looks up. “What about the realists?”

“I believe we skipped most of that, sir,” Bossuet responds.

Javert sighs. “All right, then. We’ll start over.” He then leans on the desk. “What is poetry, gentlemen?”

Before he has a chance to go further, there’s a knock at the classroom door.

“Come,” Javert commands.

The door opens and it’s Valjean, wearing his trench coat and carrying a briefcase. Grantaire turns away, not able to look at him. “Excuse me, I came for my personals. Should I come back after class?”

“Get them now, Mr. Valjean,” Javert says forcefully.

As Valjean walks toward his washroom, Javert begins again. “Gentlemen, turn to page 21 of the introduction. Mr. Bossuet, read aloud the essay by Dr. Pritchard on _Understanding Poetry_.”

Grantaire doesn’t know what to do. He knows he needs to apologize. He knows they _all_ need to apologize, but he can’t, not while Javert is staring them all down.

Bossuet shakes his head. “That page has been ripped out, sir.”

Grantaire watches Valjean through the opening in the washroom door. Valjean smiles like a cat who has caught his canary.

“Well, borrow somebody else's book,” Javert says.

“They're all ripped out, sir.”

“What do you mean, _they're all ripped out_?”

Bossuet is at a loss for words. “Sir, we, uh-“

“ _Never mind_.”

Fed up, Javert takes his own book over to Bossuet’s desk and then slaps the open page. “Read!”

" _Understanding Poetry_ by Dr. J Evans Pritchard, Ph.D.,” Bossuet begins. As Bossuet reads the essay, Valjean watches the classroom through the open door, but focuses on Grantaire the most.

Grantaire feels like he wants to die or turn into a puddle on the floor under Valjean’s quiet but sincere gaze. Valjean smiles at him before gathering the last of his things and making to exit the washroom. The door squeaks and interrupts Bossuet’s recitation of Pritchard.

"... How important is that objective,” Bossuet starts again. “Question 1 rates the poem's perfection; question 2 rates its importance.”

Valjean walks back toward the classroom door, and before he gets to it, Grantaire gathers up all his courage and stands. “Mr. Valjean! I’m sorry! They made everybody sign it.”

Javert gets up and moves toward Grantaire. “Quiet, Mr. Grantaire!”

Grantaire continues, ignoring Javert. “You gotta believe me!”

Valjean nods and takes a step toward Grantaire. “I do believe you, René.”

Javert turns toward Valjean, his eyes like daggers. “Leave, Mr. Valjean!”

“But it wasn't his fault, I told you!”

“Sit down, Mr. Grantaire!”

Grantaire, utterly dejected, sits back at his desk.

“One more outburst from you or anyone else, and you're out of this school,” Javert says, his voice almost at a yell. “Leave, Mr. Valjean.”

Valjean doesn’t move.

“I said _leave_ , Mr. Valjean,” Javert says again.

Valjean finally does move back toward the door, and Javert, wearing a smug look on his face, backs off toward the teacher’s desk.

That’s when Grantaire decides to make his final move, the only recourse he has left.

He stands.

On his desk.

“O Captain, My Captain!”

Valjean turns back to look at Grantaire, and after a wave of surprise crosses his face, he smiles.

Grantaire, who stares back at Valjean with as much conviction as he can muster, utterly ignores Javert as the headmaster yells at him to return to his seat.

Then Marius gets up and stands on his desk. “O Captain, My Captain!”

Grantaire looks toward Marius and can’t believe what he’s seeing.

Javert isn’t pleased in the slightest.

“Mr. Pontmercy, I warn you! Sit down!”

Marius continues to stand.

Others follow suit.

Feuilly.

Joly.

Jehan.

Combeferre.

Bahorel.

In all, ten students stand atop their desks, touched by Valjean in some fashion, despite a furious headmaster at their feet, unable to stop them.

With a look of wonder on his face, Valjean stares up at them, then speaks.

“Thank you, boys. Thank you.”


	28. The Confrontation

Javert was true to his word.

Grantaire, Marius, and all the rest who defied him are expelled. It’s only at their parents’ insistence that they’re able to stay until the end of term.

Javert may be able to rid himself of problem students, but he can’t afford to get rid of wealthy donors.

The conversation he’s been dreading with his parents happens as he drops his luggage inside the door to their house.

With no warning, his father drags him into their living room and sits him down. “We’re trying very hard to understand why you have behaved in such an inappropriate and outlandish manner. Expulsion? What on earth ever possessed you to do all this, René?”

Grantaire isn’t given the opportunity to answer. “Whatever the reason, your mother and I are not going to let you ruin your life. We will be enrolling you in Magnon Military School. You will then go to Harvard and you’re going to become a lawyer.”

“That’s eight more years, at least. Father, that’s a lifetime,” Grantaire exclaims.

“Stop it, René. Don’t be so dramatic. Magnon will teach you discipline. It will break you of… whatever has gotten a hold of you.”

Grantaire holds his head up high. “Nothing has a hold of me, Father.”

“Are you sure? You were never this rebellious before we enrolled you at Musain. And what about this boy you mentioned… _Julien_. The statement you all signed said he was the one that got you in trouble the first time. Who is he? Why was he meeting you on campus?”

“He wasn’t meeting me. He was checking on me. He’s… he’s my friend.”

“Well, you’re not going to have any more contact with him.”

Grantaire’s eyes widen. “No! Don’t! You can’t!”

“Why? Tell me! Why is this boy so important to you, René!”

“He’s… he’s my boyfriend! I love him!”

Grantaire’s father stares at him, silent. When he does speak, it sounds more like a rumble than words. “Even more reason for you to never see him again. He’s… perverted you, somehow. Magnon will fix that.”

Grantaire’s mother remained silent throughout the entire exchange. Grantaire looks toward her. “Please, Mother, don’t make me go! I don’t want to be a lawyer! I never have! I want to paint, I want to study art! I want Julien there with me. I can still be a good son. I can still make you proud of me!”

No response.

“Please, Mother! Do something!”

“Alain,” she finally says, taking her husband’s arm. “Don’t do this. You can see how miserable this is making him.”

“Olivia, do you hear what you’re saying? Look at him! He’s… he’s bent! He needs to be fixed. Something’s wrong with him.”

“No, there’s nothing wrong with him,” Olivia replies. “He’s our son, and he deserves to be happy.”

She then turns back to Grantaire. “Take your bags up to your room, René. We’ll be up shortly with our decision.”

Grantaire doesn’t think he’s ever moved faster in his life.

\--

There’s a knock on Grantaire’s bedroom door later on that evening. When the door opens, his mother walks in, carrying a tv tray with his dinner.

“Where’s Father,” Grantaire asks.

“In his study, fuming,” Olivia says as she sets the tray in front of her son as he sits on his bed.

“What’s going to happen to me,” Grantaire asks as he begins to pick at his food.

“Well, I convinced him not to send you to military school, but you’re not going to stay here.”

“Where am I going, then?”

“Back to the city. We spoke with your grandmother, and you’ll be re-enrolled at Madeleine after the holidays. You’ll stay with her until you graduate.”

It’s the best news Grantaire could possibly hear. He flings himself at his mother and hugs her. “Thank you, Mother! Thank you so much!”

Olivia pulls away from Grantaire. “You need to tell me about this boy, René. Has he… gotten you into anything else than what happened at Musain?”

“No, Mother. Not at all.”

Grantaire tells his mother about Enjolras and tries to convince her of his good intentions. About their story. About how Enjolras helped him rediscover himself.

“And art is really what you want to pursue?”

“Oh, yes. And I don’t even have to leave the city to do it. I could go to NYU, or Columbia. It’s all right there, Mother, and I could be really good at it. I really could, if I had the chance.”

“Would _he_ be down there as well?”

“I suppose. Julien wants to act, and what better place to do that than in the City?”

“Your father won’t like that.”

“I know, but… I love him, Mother. I can’t leave him. He wouldn’t leave me either. I know it.”

Olivia is silent for a few moments. “I can’t guarantee anything, but I wouldn’t flaunt him in front of your father. He’s still not entirely on board with this new… direction you’ve decided to take. ‘Out of sight, out of mind’ may be the best course of action right now.”

Grantaire nods. “As long as I’m not being sent away, I’ll do whatever.”

“No, René. You’re not going to be sent away. I would have never let that happen. Not to you. You’re my boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...my fix-it for Mrs. Perry, bless her soul.
> 
> I see Mrs. Grantaire as more... Laura Petrie-esque, hence the ability to actually have meaningful and constructive conversations with her husband.
> 
> I may have just dated myself with that reference, but at this point, I don't care. ;)
> 
> ONE MORE CHAPTER, READERS. :)


	29. Epilogue - The Great White Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally I don't like putting author notes at the beginning of the chapter, but I'll make an exception for this.
> 
> This epilogue has been planned out for months, but was not written until August 12th, the day after the death of Robin Williams, who played John Keating, the teacher at the center of Dead Poets Society, and whose portrayal of that character helped shape my version of Jean Valjean in this story.
> 
> In writing this, I used two main references along with my own imagination: a copy of the movie script, and the film itself. Rewatching a beloved movie is no hardship, and looking back on the experience of writing this, I cherish now the multiple times I watched the Uncle Walt exchange between Keating and Todd, or Keating's conversation with Neal about his father. This may be a Les Mis story written by a girl in her late 20s, but Robin's fingerprints are all over it, and I felt that I needed to acknowledge that.
> 
> Thank you, Captain. We will miss your energy, your dedication, your connection not only to your fellow actors, but to us, your audience. May your soul now be at peace.
> 
> -*-

Returning to Madeleine Prep Academy didn’t feel like coming home. Grantaire may have only been away a semester, but it felt like a lifetime. Its halls were familiar, the teachers as monotonous as ever, the students just as privileged, but Grantaire saw them with new eyes.

He couldn’t wait to get out of there.

Living with his grandmother also afforded Grantaire a sense of freedom he hadn’t experienced before. While his week was centered on school and his studies, his weekends were his to do with as he pleased. What he did with those weekends was visit museums, take campus tours of the schools he was applying for, and even see a play or two with his grandmother.

And then there was Enjolras.

The distance between the city and New Rochelle was only a train ride long, so Enjolras was able to visit Grantaire on a few occasions. One of Grantaire’s more memorable visits was when the two of them went and saw _Redhead_ at the 46 th Street Theatre together. The visits were short, but they got Grantaire through the final stretch.

It also helped that Enjolras had told him he would be moving down to The City.

Permanently.

\--

Grantaire was accepted into the Art History undergraduate program at NYU.

Enjolras got special dispensation from Columbia University to take classes in Barnard’s Theatre department and earn their BA degree.

It was the start of a new life. For both of them.

A life together.


End file.
